


A Hundred Years From Now...

by ilyahna1980, winebearcat



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Professors, Bisexuality, Explicit Sexual Content, Fluff and Angst, Gay Rights, LGBTQ Themes, M/M, Multi, Past Drug Use, Social Justice, Star-crossed, Teacher-Student Relationship
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-01
Updated: 2016-05-10
Packaged: 2018-03-26 14:08:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 40,346
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3853468
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ilyahna1980/pseuds/ilyahna1980, https://archiveofourown.org/users/winebearcat/pseuds/winebearcat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>[Alternate Universe]</p><p> </p><p>***this story is indefinitely on hold***</p><p>"Ten years from now... a hundred years from now, someone like you will love someone like me, and there won't be any Templars to tear them apart." - Anders, Dragon Age II.</p><p>Dr. Elias Anders is a Danish professor of social justice at the University of Oxford in England, and Garrett Hawke is a rich American playboy planning to coast through a prestigious degree with as little effort as possible. What Garrett does not figure on is being enraptured with his taciturn, opinionated instructor. Anders will teach Hawke many things, and foremost of these is what really matters in life. </p><p>This story is dedicated to folks from all walks of life with experience of love that others say is "not traditional."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Despite some later notations in chapter headers, both authors wrote all chapters.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This has been edited from the original version in terms of the temporal setting in order to parallel social movements. We now realize that our portrayal of the British higher education system could be more accurate, so we apologize to our British readers.

_Fall, 2005, Oxford, England_

Garrett Hawke bursts through the classroom door in an undignified manner, interrupting the fluid, aristocratic monologue of introduction conducted by who he presumes to be the instructor. He offers out a half-hearted apology, straying from the glare of his new professor, and slumps down into an open seat beside a petite girl. With a quick adjustment of his baseball cap, he flashes her a quick smile and turns his shoulders to face the silent, imposing lecturer standing before the classroom. He is tall, certainly, and dripping in a fine-tailored suit the shade of midnight black. A purposeful choice in style, no doubt, as his taste in garments, paired with his distinct facial structure, amber eyes, and dark blonde hair, elucidate that this man is certainly of Scandinavian origin. He is arching a brow now, lips tucking into a displeased frown as Garrett responds in kind with a charming, more genuine smile in official greeting.

Unlike most people, male and female alike, this man does not respond to the legendary Hawke charm. Instead, he lowers the raised eyebrow after a moment, eyes sweeping across the room while continuing in a voice which seems as tailored to his profession as the suit he wears. It resonates through the room with its structured acoustics, reaching the farthest, raised seats where Garrett has tucked himself hurriedly.

"You will notice as your academic careers persist," the man is saying, as Garrett realizes his intuition is correct, for he speaks with the accent of an English educated Dane, "that you will have numerous professors who do not bother to offer opinions."

The man pauses, beside the lectern rather than behind it, hands behind his back, and fixes the class with his amber stare. The eyes sweep the other students and pause on Garrett Hawke.

"I, however, am not one of them."

Garrett finds himself automatically raising a mimicry of the quirked eyebrow he received moments before. Then the professor's eyes are gone again, and he continues.

"There are three major schools of thought in social theory. Symbolic interactionism, functionalism, and conflict theory. Two of these are just shy of bullshit."

There is a moment where the bulk of the class is laughing, but there is a sudden, anticipatory, uneasy undercurrent. Pens are poised above paper and fingers upon keyboards, and then the professor offers a wry smile.

"I promise not to score you on your adherence to my own obstinacy."

Garrett's brow finally lowers and his mouth tucks into a slight frown. He glances over at the girl's syllabus and belatedly realizes that unlike his other introductory courses, all mandatory as part of his general education requirements, this is one that will drag him through the depths of academic Hell salvageable only via black coffee, all-nighters, self-deprecation, and sycophancy. Perhaps not the latter, however, and Garrett's frown deepens. Such was his preferred tactic all throughout his tenure at the prestigious New England preparatory school that landed him at the University of Oxford. Except Garrett Hawke did not come to university for academic pursuits, and he flashes another smile at his classmate who immediately descends into a flushed state.

He is intrigued, however, and opens his laptop. His fingers are not dutifully typing notes in a word document as his classmates' are, but quietly clicking open a browser to research the man from whose poised voice continues to scarcely scratch at his unlistening ears.

Garrett types a name into the search engine, after peering without much subtlety at the neat stack of printed papers upon the desk of his pretty neighbor. Her eyes flick to him as he extends his attention, precarious as it might be, and he cannot help his pretty smile, behind which is the force of a fine face and old money.

 _Dr. Elias Anders, University of Oxford_ : he types into Google's banner.

A photo appears above text, and while Garrett means to access information, he pauses, nonetheless, for someone once took a very compelling photo of this man. It accompanies his explication upon the University of Oxford’s modern foray into the information age. Indeed, the professor hails from Copenhagen, though educated at Eton - the same school that has often coaxed British aristocracy into maturity. Curious.

Garrett clicks the mousepad, bringing up a few images. A man starkly different than the stolid, smartly dressed creature before him appears in images beside men and women darker skinned, brightly festooned, but seemingly enamored of him. His eyes are alight, fire, and Garrett forgets what he is looking at, until a pinched, irritated voice cracks his reverie.

"You sir."

Garrett's eyes are wrenched up, a bit wide and startled. For one brief second, he is locked into oblivion with a gaze the color of fine whiskey, and just as cold. His lips part, and he means to speak, but no words form.

Thesis on the unbreakable, unclimbable caste system of India. A list of journal articles too long to scroll through.

He raises his eyes from the picture of this same man's tan, smiling countenance to the pale, glowering one regarding him now.

"You are?" the voice asks, and he realizes he is being asked his name.

"Uh...Garrett," he stumbles through the syllables, "Hawke."

Those liquid eyes keep him frozen, and then his… handsome... face loans him a lifetime of irritable impatience.

"This isn't Boston. Nor is it even America." The gaze dips from Garrett's Red Sox cap and down his body in a way that, for some reason, leaves raised goose-flesh across his skin. "Take notes rather than browse the internet." How had he known?

Garrett swallows down a thick glob of saliva and closes the browser, and then the laptop. While many of his peers would have erupted into an unprecedented shade of crimson, his amiable features merely ignite with a mirthful half-apology tinged by sheepishness. "I'm sorry," he offers in a clear, loud voice - loud enough to carry across the lecture hall and prompting three-fourths of his peers to turn and glance at him. His wide smile, one that has kept him out of trouble nearly as much as it has landed him in it, does not falter even despite the harsh glower that sets into the professor's visage. With his audience watching, he merely closes the laptop with a quiet click.

"Could I look at that?" he asks in a smooth, fluid tone, indicating the syllabus upon her desk,  and she nearly chokes out a cough.

"Yes, oh, um, of course," she sputters and his blue eyes crackle with mild amusement.

It is a reaction he is not unaccustomed to, and as the curiosity of his peers now shifts back to the still silent professor, he scarcely has time to receive the bundle of papers and deliver a wink before the aristocratic voice of the stoic instructor pierces his thoughts once more:

"Mr. Hawke."

Garrett turns the beaming countenance that he is bestowing on the young woman at his left elbow forward, automatically, and it is then employed by default on his professor. Without effect, for the man purses his lips and says:

"May we resume this lecture, sir?" in his eloquent accent.

The smile falls from Garrett's face, as he is not expecting this question, and for a moment he stares in surprise with his lips parted foolishly, as classmates are staring at him. He recovers in style, however, for that is his way, and the smile he flashes back at Dr. Elias Anders is turned up in intensity. He waves the hand clutching his borrowed syllabus magnanimously.

"By all means," he offers.

The professor seems to be immune to his charm, however, unless the mere twitch at the corner of his lips is any indication of some feeling. He says nothing else to Garrett, however, and resumes his lecture. Garrett listens dutifully for what amounts to ten minutes or so, and must admit he does find the man's peculiar accent quite agreeable, but it is significantly more so than the subject matter. Yet he finds his mind drifting when the professor begins to speak about manifest functions, and instead slips his phone out of his pocket again when it vibrates, flipping it open and holding it clandestinely. It is is flatmate, Rob, a friend from his preparatory school days who shares numerous qualities with Garrett. Both of them matriculate from Boston, with roots and trust funds that can be traced to the first American settlers. Neither of them need a career, but are expected to have one, and the idea is to achieve it with as little effort as possible through all the booze and one-night stands England can offer.

Thus it is that he manages not to type a single note within the laptop that he... actually did not even open again, he realizes, as class ends. He is chuckling softly to himself at this, returning the syllabus and preparing to ask the blonde for her phone number, when a sonorous, drab command carries easily over the din of shuffling students.

"Mr. Hawke. See me in my office, please."

-ooo-

 

It is not the first time he has been summoned to an instructor's office for disciplinary purposes, and thus Garrett straightens his spine and ensures that his crisp white button-down is tucked appropriately into the waistband of his dark slacks; for if he is going to be lectured for anything at all, it is not going to be on his damned appearance.

He issues a single rap on the door, eyes briefly flicking over to the name plate bolted to the wall that reads:

_Dr. Elias Anders, Department of Social Policy and Intervention_

The man is not yet tenured, though his voice certainly is as it pierces through the door in an eloquent command. At his invitation, Garrett's turns the knob of his office door and enters. He is greeted by the displeased amber gaze of Dr. Elias Anders who is perched casually at the edge of his desk. His arms are crossed, watching with growing vexation as Garrett closes the door shut. He chances a curious glance around the office, silently drinking in the rich dimensions of life that permeate the relatively small space. It would seem that this Dr. Elias Anders is a well traveled man, for there are small microcosms of the world - First and Third alike - that assume various art forms. He notes the thick Persian rug sprawling across the polished wood floor, perhaps purchased in the Grand Bazaar at Istanbul, and the thick wall tapestry undoubtedly crafted by a traditional loom hinting at Indian origins. Art assumes various forms, particularly in paintings; some commissioned by the stroke of ancient, indigenous genius and others by the classically trained hands of his fellow Europeans. There are trinkets abound, shelved neatly across his desk and Garrett senses that they were gifted perhaps, though many reveal Southeast Asian and African flairs. His windowsill, from which there is now a stream of buttery sunlight filtering through, is lined with a row of vibrant potted plants.

Though what is possibly more imposing than the man himself is his immense bookcase that looms behind his desk. It is brimming with texts, ranging from the ancient classics to 20th-century thought that Garrett's eyes quickly flick across, finally landing on his three framed degrees bolted onto the wall.

_University of Cambridge; Bachelor of Arts: Sociology and Anthropology_

_University of Cambridge; Master of Arts: Sociology_

_University of Oxford; Doctor of Philosophy: Sociology_

Garrett is entirely distracted, however, and forgets to offer the grand, charming smile his lips have been nursing. Thus it is for this reason that the broody professor's visage darkens with deepened irritation.

"Mr. Hawke," he finally says coolly.  

Garrett's gaze swings wide-eyed back to the man who has summoned him here. He finds that at this proximity, the light picks out copper streaks in his blonde hair, which is pulled back in a ponytail, and that there is a faint dusting of freckles on the pale skin of his left ear, trailing lazily down his neck to the collarbone. The man wears no tie as do many of his cohorts, and the top two buttons of the impeccable white shirt are undone. The black jacket which also hangs open is tailored to accentuate his frame, which is lean, and perhaps two inches shy of Garrett's 6'4. The entire appearance manages to be both fine, and brooding.

"You're definitely Danish," Garrett states in a tone as though he's delivering the answer to a trivia question, and glances up to the man's face with a raised eyebrow and an anticipatory ghost of a smile, sure of his assessment. Garrett has been all over the world, but there was hardly anywhere where the people were is elegantly beautiful as in Denmark.

He is rewarded by the irritable expression on the professor's face dropping completely away, replaced by something that could almost be called surprise, were it not wiped away so quickly. Lips parted, but remained silent, and then at last the man cleared his throat.

"So you did learn something today," Dr. Elias Anders says, and quirks a brow over the top of his designer silver glasses.

"Of course. I'm a model student," Garrett quips readily, and his lips finally bloom with his magnificent smile. It is radiant in nature - iconic, nearly, if one were to ask anyone from his preparatory school days - and clearly gifted through selective genetic breeding.

Yet the professor does not sway from his stoic frigidity and instead lowers his arched brow.

"Thank you for addressing the topic at hand, Mr. Hawke," he responds as irritation begins to bleed through his tone once more, "how proactive of you."

Garrett's smile dims for a moment yet does not diminish entirely. He had been intuitively correct in that sycophancy would do little for him so long as he remained Dr. Elias Anders' student, and thus he deflects entirely by readjusting the blue Boston Red Sox baseball hat fitted snugly around his head.

"Professor -"

"Take off your cap, Mr. Hawke," he is interrupted and his jaw snaps shut.

"It is extremely rude, and I shall not tolerate rudeness, inside or outside of my classroom," Dr. Anders grates and Garrett dutifully heeds his will by swiftly removing the hat in a feat of a chagrin.

Garrett observes the professor’s eyes stray to what is likely a disarrayed mop of black hair - its natural waviness not lending well to being crushed beneath a cap. Finding himself for some reason self-conscious, which is a strange sensation, Garrett runs his fingers through it quickly.

He is quite literally standing before this self-possessed, over-educated man with his hat in his hand.

“From here on out,” Dr. Anders is saying, “leave it at home. Phone off. And next time…” He actually smirks at Garrett. “...perhaps you should try opening the laptop, if you don’t have an eidetic memory.”

Garrett’s chagrin sluggishly dissipates and he is crackling with a flippant smirk once more. He begins flexing his wrist blithely and notes how the professor’s cold eyes fixate upon the jerking manner at which his most cherished cap begins to slice through the viscosity of the air.

“On the contrary, Professor,” his grins widens, “I do.”

Dr. Anders’ eyes flick back to his and they narrow at the assertion, further elucidating his disapprobation, for it is quickly becoming apparent that attempting to broach a topic with any degree of sincerity amidst Garrett Hawke’s presence is an absolute waste of time.

Garrett smiles broadly before launching into a repetition of part of the lecture he had taken no notes on: _“'There are major limitations in the assumption that social theory may ever accurately encompass enough factors to assume any universal theme, but primarily, there can be no overarching paradigm without first accounting for human greed.”_ He rattles it off effortlessly and observes in budding amusement as the rigid man’s countenance dissolves from irritation to a mild degree of shock.

The professor seems to have had some practice at maintaining an expressionless countenance, however, for even the revelation of a rare gift in his student does not register upon his face for long. He does, however, allow himself a half-smile, glancing briefly at the cap in Garrett’s hand and then back to his face.

“I guess you can leave the laptop at home too, then.”

With that, he slides from his half-perch on the desk to stand fully before him.

He clears his throat again, and folds his arms. “I assume you aren’t… majoring in this field. You are, after all, American.”

“Born and bred. It will be difficult, however, to send Hedwig home notifying my parents that I have a professor with Marxist leanings. Such may not be compatible with their near-cultish fervor for the Republican Party. By the way, did the English update their mailing system?”

“This is Oxford, dear boy. It’s practically the Middle Ages.” Was the professor actually smiling?

Garrett’s own smile deepens as his cerulean blue eyes begin to sparkle with mirth.

"Is that so? Well, shit. At my age, I suppose I've already lived a full life surviving the bubonic plague and leprosy. But I'll try to make it out of here alive. May not be too easy though, what with my... taboo preferences," he mentions flippantly.

“Sheep?” Dr. Anders drawls. “The countryside is positively rife with them.”

Garrett has to swallow down a laugh, though his features assume a darker, edacious impression. His lips curl upwards severely and he cocks his head a fraction to the right.

“A bit more primal. Blasphemous even. Oh - no. Sinful. I've always liked that word. Sin. So succinct. They say Adam and Eve committed the Original Sin, but I don't know how much I... believe... in all that," he issues in a low, throaty voice.

The professor had turned slightly away as Garrett was speaking, for reclining against the desk had upset a stack of printed, stapled syllabi. He was straightening the stack with long fingers, but as Garrett delivered this last declaration, a twitch of one hand sent the top of the stack fluttering to the ground. He growls something in his native language that is clearly a curse, and not looking up, crouches to gather the pages.

Garrett bites back his enormous grin, nearly imprinting his teeth into his bottom lip. Yet his long legs carry him quickly over to the flustered professor in a genuine attempt to aid him with the small bout of chaos he has created along his Persian rug. He kneels alongside Dr. Anders, attempting to scrounge, shuffle, and stack what his uncharacteristic folly has unraveled. Garrett sincerely reaches for a syllabus, and in the same moment, his professor stretches forth his own hand for the pages. Garrett finds himself connecting with what are Dr. Elias Anders’ exquisitely fashioned, elegant fingers, and then the professor is jerking his hand away as though somehow he has been struck by lightning.

Garrett’s eyes widen and he reels backwards, for he too felt the jolting sensation of their physical contact. The professor suddenly abandons all semblance of ordering the pages neatly, and merely snatches them unceremoniously off the floor, some of them bending in his clutch. He stands quickly, looking down on Garrett now from his height.

“That will be all, Mr. Hawke.”

Garrett merely blinks up at him, unperturbed by his towering height that casts a shadow over him. Instead, he slowly rises, cerulean eyes trained on amber, to his own full height and it is his turn to peer marginally down at Dr. Elias Anders. His lips twitch expressively, yet he offers out a small, disciplined smile in response as he issues:

“Wednesday, then, Professor.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Cover art](http://winebearcat.tumblr.com/post/124584012450/i-commissioned-the-lovely-and) and more [cuteness](http://winebearcat.tumblr.com/post/133318728290/happy-birthday-ilyahna1980-have-garrett-and) done by the lovely dorian-trash. Bonus Leyendecker-influenced [ spinoff](http://winebearcat.tumblr.com/post/133243490390/dorian-trash-wips-from-the-stream-leyendecker) by D-T!
> 
> [Garrett Hawke](http://winebearcat.tumblr.com/post/138217864985/ilyahna1980-happy-birthday-to-my-jenn-here-is) and [Elias Anders](http://winebearcat.tumblr.com/post/135515515465/happy-holidays-ilyahna1980-i-commissioned) by eristhenat.
> 
> [Garrett](http://winebearcat.tumblr.com/post/138169840415/fuyune-soooo-tomorrow-is-winebearcats) and [Elias](http://winebearcat.tumblr.com/post/131558513480/fuyune-my-only-stress-relief-is-drawing-anders) by fuyune-.
> 
> [Garrett](http://winebearcat.tumblr.com/post/135898036280/un-shit-yourself-so-i-wanted-to-get) by krem-de-le-creme.
> 
> Garrett & Elias by [capt-spangles](http://winebearcat.tumblr.com/post/130029601995/capt-spangles-i-was-up-till-5-am-reading) and [demihawke](http://winebearcat.tumblr.com/post/132883752705/demihawke-a-quick-commission-for-the). Plus a cutie [Elias](http://winebearcat.tumblr.com/post/129635380175/winebearcat-demihawke-quick-lil-dooble-of) also by DH.


	2. Chapter 2

Garrett’s fingers are tangled in the strands of long blonde hair and he pulls back, opening the neck that he presses his lips to. The flesh is soft, yielding pliantly to his teeth, and he ignores the small yelp as an electric current winds from his throat down to his core. As he thrusts deeper inside, it spools in his belly, the muscles tightening and uncoiling at once. The sensation is blindingly warm, enveloping him with slick heat when his eyes flutter, and it is just as he has imagined it so many times.

His thrust is met with a low moan, and the sound sends a thrill through him, culminating in his inner thighs. He matches the noise of pleasure with a groan originating from deep within his chest, and his tongue collects heated sweat as he drags it along the slope of the graceful neck. Teeth scrape hastily at the sensitive skin beneath, warranting a staccato of throaty panting, and he rolls his hips forward with a harsh thrust that prompts the sting of the professor’s nails biting into his back. He has imagined the rough clasp of his hands digging into his flesh, and the rake of desperate nails prompts a breathless groan as he continues to thrust deeper, until with a final cry he expends himself fully. Gasping, he collapses upon the body beneath him, a sheen of sweat coating their blazing skin where they remain joined. He is panting and he inhales, trying to cement the scent of him, when a voice jars him roughly from his fantasy:

“If you’re done, can you get off me please?”

It is a decidedly feminine voice. A familiar voice, tinged with irate disappointment, that belongs to his longtime girlfriend. She peers up at him now with raised eyebrows, as if demanding a response, and he blinks at her.

“Oh, yeah sorry,” he mutters and rolls off of her petite frame, fingers releasing their grasp from her rich dark hair.

Garrett flops with guilty, exhausted satiation onto his back amid sweat-damp, tangled sheets, and stares at the ceiling. He swallows, eyes round as he realizes where his mind has just been; where his incorporeal self has been. It is not the first time he has imagined the tactile characteristics of the pale Danish professor whose class he escaped with a half-hearted effort this recent fall semester. Though his thoughts are further interrupted as the figure beside him stirs, and Isabela sits up. His bed dips when she slips off of it, moving somewhere along the edge of his vision, and he scarcely discerns her clearing her throat as she plucks her articles of clothing from the floor.

He forces himself to turn his head, meaning to offer some semblance of conversation, but is only inspired to reach for the blanket bunched at his feet, pulling it up over his naked body. Isabela tugs on a black lace thong, followed by jeans, then finds her bra. As she snakes her arms through the straps and deftly fastens it behind, she turns an apathetic gaze upon Garrett that manages to be as icy as the Boston winter beyond the bay window.

“I’m going home to pack,” she announces unceremoniously and he blinks.

"You look beautiful," he audibly forces past his teeth, and indeed his voice and expression lack any indication of emotional depth, for he offered the statement out of a loosely defined sense of obligation.

While it is a phrase he has uttered in the past with sincerity, objectively supported by olive skin and dark, impatient eyes, it now hangs thick in the air between them. After a breathless moment, she suddenly breaks the exchange by turning from his vacuous gaze.

“See you this summer?” she tugs her sweater over her head and her crown of hair pokes out from thick threads of warmth.

Deep brown eyes peer at him inflexibly, to which he offers a single nod. Yet as she turns for her departure, as if wholly satisfied with his response, she pauses. It would seem that she too shares this same sense of tenuous obligation, which she fulfills by quietly striding back toward his bedside. She leans down to give him a brusque, emotionless kiss on a stubbled cheek, and his eyes flick to meet hers. Her full lips quirk for a tight smile, met by his unflinching countenance, before she turns once more. Garrett watches her for a moment as she gathers her purse, and fluffs her brown locks into some state of order.

“See you,” he responds belatedly, yet she is already out the door and closing it quietly behind her.

Garrett continues to lie there, fingers holding the plush blanket under his chin, staring at the closed door. A relationship spanning the expanse of high school, nearly four years, and persisting into college by mutual agreement, should have at least some semblance of intimacy or warmth. And yet, had he not just been imagining she was not only someone else, but someone entirely different.

That particular someone, the Oxford professor of social justice who had not seen fit to give him more than a B-minus for his impassive effort in Introduction to Sociology this past semester, he would see again for the three-hundred level class he had been forced to enroll in as part of his graduation requirements. There had been more than one option for the class, different professors he could have pursued, but he had selected Dr. Elias Anders for reasons that were perhaps somewhat apparent.

With his return to the United Kingdom for spring semester nearly imminent, he glances at the packed suitcase standing upright in the corner of his room. While he adores his hometown, he would not necessarily admit that he has been counting down the hours (thirty-eight, to be exact) until his departing flight out of Logan International. Perhaps his impatience stems from a puerile desire to return to his unrepentant lifestyle of late nights, excess skin, and flagrant irresponsibility, though such manners of conduct are not unique to his poorly maintained flat at Oxford. He peers around his childhood room, ruminating upon all that Boston and his upbringing have given to him, though he is decidedly set in his conviction that the upcoming semester shall offer some sense of personal accretion. Yet perhaps this impatience is marked by something deeply unseen, with a single burning ember that tugs at his loins and a budding sense of infatuation for something - someone - still so utterly, delectably foreign to him.

-ooo-

Dr. Anders’ petite secretary, Miss Merrill, smiles brightly at Garrett as he passes her desk.

“Evening, beautiful,” he greets her with a wink and grins when she blushes, wrinkling her nose.

“Hush, you.”

Garrett’s grin fades as he pauses at the imposing wooden door of the professor’s office as Miss Merrill ushers him in, despite the fact that he’s had weekly appointments in this office for a month. He places his hand on the door handle, then removes it, unzipping the length of his dark green Barbour jacket to slip it from his shoulders. He unwinds the red cable-knit scarf from his neck, straightens his sweater, and tucks the articles of clothing he has shed under his arm. He has been given permission by this time not to knock, but he does anyway: a single rap against a panel, his usual advertisement, and then presses the brass handle down to push the door open.

He is here for his weekly meeting to discuss the intimidating paper that the professor has assigned as the sole criteria for the semester’s grade. It is to be a twenty page composition on a topic of social justice, with a staggering number of sources. Garrett Hawke has so often been the type of student to procrastinate on papers, or to skate by on a surprise test with his eidetic memory. Even with the magnitude of this particular assignment’s influence over his mark in this course, he might, under normal circumstances, have waited until the week before it was due to attempt to tackle it, but there is the fact that he is admittedly drawn to Dr. Elias Anders’ open door policy.

Additionally, has has a chosen a topic he thinks interests his professor, if his journal articles are any indication: a discussion of the grassroots tactics that successfully saw the right for same sex couples to marry passed in his home state of Massachusetts eight months prior, and whether such tactics could be applied in other states. He has had numerous engaging discussions regarding his outline with the normally taciturn professor, including the fact that his neighboring nation of The Netherlands had been the first government in the world to pass such a law. He has not, however, managed to turn any of these conversations artfully in a direction that has yet inspired the professor to admit anything about his own persuasions.

Dr. Anders is behind his desk, not wrapped in the necessary accoutrements of an English winter, and has even divested himself of his traditional blazer. His black button-down is open at the throat, as usual, with blonde hair brushing his shoulders as he glances up at Garrett’s entrance. His hand is poised over a paper, rolled back over the staple that holds the stack together - no doubt it is someone’s future C-minus. His brow is furrowed in an expression Garrett has grown to realize symbolizes irritation.

“Ah. A small sliver of sunlight in an otherwise dismal day,” he grunts. He looks immediately away, cursing himself inwardly for saying that aloud, and indicates the paper under his old-fashioned fountain pen, upon which he has made numerous marks and comments. “Here I have a gentleman misquoting an article that I wrote myself. Sometimes I wonder why I bother.”

“That truly is bleak,” Garrett snorts with a mild smirk.

He sits down across from the professor and swings his backpack onto his knee. It is lightly dusted in snow as he unzips it, and he finally brandishes a folder with an echo of a sigh.

“So… I have a fairly detailed outline at this point. Still trying to compile all my sources, but it seems to be coming along,” he says and allows the backpack to slip from his lap with a graceless thud.

He drapes his articles of wintertime clothing across the arm of the chair, swiping the thin layer of snow off with several fingers, and finally meets the professor’s gaze with a close-lipped smile.

Dr. Anders returns the smile tiredly, but his eyes light up for a moment with a youthful glint. “Snowing? I’ve been confined to this tomb all day.” He glances behind him at the small window set high in the far wall, but it is opaque and frosted with condensation.

“Yes, but at least this tomb is toasty,” Garrett grins, creasing his dimple. “I have to sleep with three different blankets. The heating in my flat isn’t working very well.”

The professor’s brow creases again and his lips part on something it is clear he decides not to say, then he smirks. “The cold keeps you alert, at least.”

“It makes me want to nap, actually,” he shrugs and props his elbow up onto the arm of the chair. He rests his chin in his hand and smiles genially at Dr. Anders.

“You’re a lazy American. That doesn’t surprise me,” he quips, raising an eyebrow, but his answering smile is cordial.

“Surviving a couple New England winters will get you through most things,” he smirks. “And lazy? Have you ever had to dig a car out of the snow?”

The professor does not look particularly impressed, but he sets his fountain pen carefully aside and then pushes away the paper he had been grading with somewhat less reverence. “So,” he offers, changing the subject, “do you want me to look at what you’ve done since last week?” He punctuates the last with a yawn that he quickly stifles behind a fist.

“Were we going to do something else?” he arches a brow with a facetious grin, though leans forward to slide the folder across his desk.

Dr. Anders rewards this question with two raised eyebrows. He takes the folder, and pulls it toward him, then flips it open, rifling through the top sheets carefully, scanning for changes. He reaches a page that culminated since their last meeting, and pauses, reading with his chin in one hand.

“Did you find that article I suggested?” he inquires.

“Oh, I completely forgot. I can try to hunt it down after our meeting,” he suddenly looks somewhat sheepish.

“Too busy partying, Mr. Hawke?” The professor turns those whiskey colored eyes on him from above the rims of his glasses, but there is no true reproach in his expression.

“Of course not, Dr. A. My weekends consist of study and prayer,” he simpers, though his own bright blue eyes crease in witheld amusement.

A page aloft in his hand in the process of being flipped over, Elias Anders schools his face into a mockery of utter seriousness. “What an unfortunate way to spend your time.”

“I agree,” he feigns, “I really ought to get out more. Seems you do too, if you’re referring to your office as a tomb.”

The professor makes a noncommittal noise, and continues to peruse the document his student has given him. He reads several pages as time passes in awkward silence, punctuated only by the ticking of a clock on the wall. “I think you should include a section speculating upon the various possible reactionary behaviors of states if such legislation is ever upheld by the federal government.”

“So my own personal, well-informed speculation at the end? I could, possibly two pages before the conclusion,” he nods in the palm of his hand though pauses. “Unless you’d suggest more.”

“No,” he says, flipping another page. “I think the major issues can be covered succinctly. People refusing to sign licences. Protests.” He shrugs, then glances up at Garrett and smiles drolly. “Big damn parties.”

“A shame the parades tend to be in summertime. I’d have attended for anecdotal research,” he chuckles quietly and covers his mouth to swallow down a small yawn. “So, the outline is fairly acceptable?”

“I think I’m going to make you publish it.”

“In a journal?” he furrows his brow, “but I’m a first year.”

“So was I,” he says, and fixes him with his clear stare. “It’s not a secret that this topic is a passion of mine. I don’t like glass ceilings.” He closes the folder and pushes it back across the desk toward Garrett. “I’ll coauthor it with you, if you’re interested, but you can have first name.”

Garrett blinks several times, shedding any and all former indication of nonchalance. He appears perplexed now, and lifts his chin from his propped arm to straighten his posture.

“I don’t understand, Professor. I’m not a particularly excellent student, and I’ve yet to actually write an official word of the paper. Wouldn’t it be more prudent to approach another student about coauthorship?” he asks, shaking his head slightly.

“You’re the most intelligent student in this class,” he says, leaning back in his chair with a shrug, interlacing his fingers over his chest. “And, you don’t bore the shit out of me.” Elias smiles and then bites the inside of his cheek, realizing he shouldn’t have admitted that, since he certainly didn’t need to give this eighteen year old boy the right impression. “But it’s completely up to you. It’s a lot more work. And you know I don’t make things easy.”

Garrett stares at him openly with cerulean eyes before furrowing his brow and clearing his throat. He languidly rubs a temple with two fingers, though does not break their held exchange. There are a number of comments and questions he’d desire to articulate, but his mind suddenly draws a blank as his gaze now trails across the professor to drink in his features, his disbelievingly Scandinavian features, and he has to stop himself from memorizing each slope, edge, curve, and line. Beginning first with his golden hair raked back into his ubiquitously short ponytail, then traversing to note the professor’s glasses that slid slightly down his nose.

Eyes the color of whiskey.

Cold.

Yet they are warm now, softened, as if the warmth of a cradling palm in a smoky jazz bar had tempered the harsh, frigid bite of his stare.

A sharp, geometric nose.

Forty-five degrees and carved out of Northern European genetics.

A pair of expressive lips.

Slightly pursed now, but flushed and pink with visible mirth.

“I…” Garrett suddenly punctuates their silence, snapping from his reverie, “would consider it. Perhaps we could discuss it further over a cup of coffee.”

Elias, a natural, adept observer, does not miss the way in which the young man seems to search for the answer to his offer in Elias’s own eyes, his face, and wonders with entirely unprofessional curiosity what is going through his mind. He also wonders if any of this is a good idea: suggesting that he spend more time with a student in his charge whose attraction is not only obvious to him, but mutual. He likewise searches for his answer to the question of a shared cup of coffee while drinking in Garrett Hawke’s features.

Unruly hair the color of a raven, with thick lashes just as black, which made it hard to see anything about him beyond the striking cerulean eyes. They gaze back at him with a tinge of something dark, set in a chiseled, well-bred face, shadowed with the beginnings of a beard. It does nothing to make him look older, which serves to remind him that this is an eighteen year old boy, and twelve years his junior.

Elias draws in a breath, and his lips curve into a smile at one corner before he delivers his answer:

“Coffee sounds good.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Chapter art](http://winebearcat.tumblr.com/post/133667264035/delicate-mageflower-coffee-sounds-good-i) by becauseanders.


	3. Chapter 3

They have found a seat in a corner table of a coffee shop a few minutes walk from campus: a remodeled affair that looks as though it might have once been an old village church, with stone columns and stained glass windows. Even the benches appear as though they might once have been pews, their varnish worn by the touch of penitent visitors of old, and wooden troughs along their backs for hymnals, which instead boast magazines, or the odd forgotten textbook. The nave had been hollowed out, lain with a collection of Oriental rugs, and is replete with mismatched couches and wooden tables of various shapes.

It is in this nook that Elias Anders and Garrett Hawke sit, Garrett with a mug of hot cocoa alongside him upon an end table decorated with a Tiffany style lamp, and Professor Anders with an oversized mug balancing upon the arm of the couch. There are scores of traditional tables, surrounded by benches and upholstered chairs, and they might have chosen one of them, where they would be separated by more than Garrett's bookbag between them. Indeed, Garrett had been about to select such an alternative, as he had for their recent weekly meetings, but his professor had merely wandered to the back of the shop today, where someone had drawn the heavy curtains open over windows that allow a view of the street. People pass by, pink faced in the cold, bundled in coats and scarves, and are dusted liberally white with snow.

It is at this view that the professor stares now, lifting his mug to his lips to blow gently over the steaming liquid before taking a sip. There seems to be something about the snow he enjoys, for he had turned his face up into it with a smile as they had walked over from morning lecture, letting it melt on his nose and cheeks and catch in his eyelashes.

_Perhaps it is the Scandinavian blood_ , Garrett thinks.

As if hearing his thoughts, Dr. Anders' eyes shift from the picturesque view beyond the window to meet Garrett’s and he takes another sip of his beverage.

_Venti double shot soy latte, brewed at one hundred and twenty degrees_ ; Garrett has it memorized.  

“So what do you have for me today, Mr. Hawke?”

“I’ve compiled all of my sources and begun an annotated bibliography,” he beams proudly and turns to begin unzipping the bookbag separating them.

“Impressive,” he says, though whether he is actually impressed is ambiguous. He holds a hand out for Garrett’s work.

Now prompted, his student rustles a hand around in the backpack, perhaps jostling it a bit too roughly as it now disturbs the professor’s thigh, before extracting his assignment folder.

“I can’t promise brilliance at this point,” he offers it with crinkling eyes and a sheepish grin.

Elias accepts the folder he holds out and he smiles noncommittally, leaning forward to set his coffee cup on the table before them. Settling back into the seat and opening the folder, he extracts Garrett’s list of sources and glances through it. It has been slightly more than a month since Garrett first ventured to suggest to his professor that they share a cup of coffee after a scheduled appointment to review his paper. After that, it had actually been Elias’s idea that they continue to meet here, rather than in the office he liked to refer to as a “tomb.”

_“Hnph,”_ he issues then with a displeased note. He stabs one well-manicured finger at the type on the page. “Frederick Hammond is a self-righteous fool. His book is absurd. Hopefully you’re disputing it instead of using it to further your arguments.”

Garrett parts his mouth to speak and formulate some ill crafted pretense, that _oh, of course, Professor, Dr. Hammond is indeed absurd, and no, I was never in my right mind going to utilize his text._ Yet his poorly constructed lie evaporates before it can leave his lips when the shop bell tinkles in announcement. He instinctively snaps his head toward the noise, for every shred of brilliance and academic buoyancy that his eidetic memory offers is concurrently hindered by his severe attention deficit disorder. Notwithstanding this fact, Garrett Hawke lacks the motivation to bolster his slightly below-average GPA, save for the ulterior motive packaged in a 6 foot 2 Danish man a mere foot away from him.

His sudden loss of attention does not go unnoticed by the professor, but Garrett’s bright eyes widen as he observes the individual now entering the shop. He slinks off the plush couch abruptly, thumping to the ground and grasping his bookbag as a makeshift shield. His cheek is only inches from brushing the professor’s knee, but he begins to swallow down his laughter as Officer Cullen Rutherford glides through the tranquil space. The head of campus security is chipper today, features mild and drawn with what Garrett discerns to be an attempt at a smile, though he is unaccustomed to observing such mirth upon Officer Rutherford’s face. He watches in partial amusement and partial fear as the officer brushes snow off his dopey uniform, fingers clutching onto his shield and shoulders shaking in quiet laughter.

Elias glances immediately up from the folder in his hand to the curious boy now perched upon the floor at his feet. His mind is momentarily unable to reconcile this strange behavior, and he merely stares in wonder as though Garrett has gone mad, shabbily attempting to hide behind a bookbag in plain sight.

"Whatever is the matter with you?" he asks, and then follows Garrett's wide blue gaze across the coffee shop to the campus security guard who has just entered. His mouth tucks into an instant frown though as realization sets in, though one corner twitches in amusement.

"Managed to come up on the wrong side of the illustrious Rutherford, have you?" He barely says the words without laughing.

The question prompts Garrett to dissolve into a fit of uninhibited laughter and he bows his forehead with a confirming nod.

“Illustrious,” he snickers, though it is quelled in a hushed tone as he finally begins to level out with a final string of chuckles.

“If he sees me he’ll write me up again. Just for breathing,” he grins and turns his head to peer up at the professor.

“Harrying the innocent youth of the University of Oxford is dear Rutherford’s purpose in life, Mr. Hawke. I should steer well clear of him, if I were you.” There is a smile plastered on his face now, though he attempts to conceal it behind his cup of coffee.

“There’s a strong possibility he might issue me a citation as well if he sees my students kneeling at my feet this early in the semester.” Elias nudges him in the calf with his finely polished leather shoe.

Garrett blinks at him now and a spark of dark jollity flashes through his striking eyes. Lips curling with a sprawling grin, he now nudges his professor with a knee.

“Do you often have students on their knees before you?” he asks with an innocent bat of thick lashes.

The professor does not look down, as his eyes are focused on the campus security officer who is now chatting amiably with the barista as he orders his coffee. Garrett can see his smile, however, as it curls upward into a set which can only be described as coy.

“Generally not until the end of term.”

Garrett bites his lip and turns his head away, eyes and thoughts now swimming with comments he chooses to swallow down. He now attempts to peer out over the backpack at the officer and emits an amused sigh.

“My disciplinary hearing is in two weeks,” he elucidates.

“I’m afraid to ask,” Elias intones, the folder with Garrett’s carefully assembled work now all but forgotten in his lap as he enjoys this drama. He has a long history of disagreeing with Cullen Rutherford, as well as the dean of the disciplinary committee, Meredith Stannard, whose emphasis on petty rules seems to often outweigh the interests of academia and bright futures.

_"I'm accused of vandalism and excessive consumption of alcohol,_ " he mimics in a stout, deep voice.

"It’ll be Dean Stannard, the Illustrious Rutherford and I all dancing naked under the moonlight together before they slap me with my penitent duties."

“I’d pay to see that,” Elias snorts.

“You should come,” he turns to grin up at him.

The professor glances away from Rutherford, who has just ungracefully shed a handful of beverage napkins on the floor and is attempting to scoop them up one-handed, and slides his gaze to the boy at his feet.

“That sounds like a rather sordid invitation, Mr. Hawke,” he punctuates the statement with a smirk not unlike a cat bent on mischief.

“Are you seeing this right now? It’s like a monkey trying to scratch its ass. I wouldn’t pin it as sordid. Ludicrous, perhaps. I’ll bring party hats,” he snickers with creased eyes.

The professor vibrates with laughter at this vision, though as Rutherford straightens with his wad of beverage napkins and locks eyes on them in their curious posture, like something out of a Victorian era family portrait, he clears his throat and swats Garrett on the back of the head with the folder in his hand.

“He’s on to us. Get out of the floor, you fool boy.”

Garrett abruptly stops chuckling and blinks openly at the officer in a silent, stroppy standoff. Though finally, he raises a hand to offer a wave and a facetious, sparkling grin.

Officer Rutherford is frozen beside the trash bin for a moment as he notices Garrett, still partially concealed behind his bookbag, and then his eyes slip upward to Professor Anders. A noticeable grimace creases his pouty lips and he turns away to cram the wad of napkins into the receptacle, shaking his head as he does so. He then sits down at the closest table, and appears to be set on keeping one eye upon them as he has his coffee.

Garrett rises from the ground and flops unceremoniously beside his professor, now mere inches from brushing him with his thigh. The bookbag, formerly a barrier between the two, nestles in his lap and he zips it with a residual laugh.

Elias notes his student’s new position, now plainly in the middle of the couch where the separation of two cushions could not possibly be comfortable beneath him, and raises an eyebrow. He does not, however, comment, merely crossing one leg over the other and resuming his perusal of the documents in his hand.

“You were about to eloquently impart your loathing for the theories of Dr. Hammond, I believe?”

“Yes, of course,” he smirks and leans forward to grasp his mug of lukewarm hot chocolate.

He presses it to his lips and glugs a portion of it down, eyeing the officer warily over the rim and savoring in the excess handful of marshmallows he threw in.

“Marshmallows? Truly?” Elias peers into his cup.

“What? You’re telling me you don’t like excess conglomerations of whipped sugar with absolutely zero caloric value or substance? You don’t like little morsels of fluff, Professor?” he quirks an eyebrow and continues to sip the viscous, saccharine liquid.

He is rewarded with a blank stare from his professor, eyes slightly round at this unexpected and comprehensive description of such a mundane object. At last, his gaze narrows as he lifts an eyebrow.

“Do you realize we’ve managed to accomplish absolutely nothing today?” he asks in a wry tone. “Perhaps Rutherford will straighten you out and inspire you to focus on what truly matters.”

The moment that these words leave Elias’s mouth, however, the door chime jangles cheerfully once more and is accompanied by the lilted feminine cacophony of three young women who crowd in out of the chilly English winter beyond. They are unwrapping scarves and rubbing hands together, scanning the room and the handwritten menu on the chalkboard behind the counter, when one of them grabs the arm of another and points to where Garrett’s archnemesis sits obliviously enjoying his beverage. With an audible squeak from one of them and excited murmurs from the other two, they move en masse past the barista, who watches drolly, and crowd about Rutherford.

Garrett furrows his brow and sets his mug into his lap, now turning to face his professor with an inquisitive yet wildly amused stare.

“Maybe we ought to get something done then,” he simpers casually.

Dr. Anders’ attention seems to still be concentrated on the gaggle of ladies now chatting animatedly with Officer Rutherford, and Garrett notices the professor’s brow is beetled in an expression of distaste.

“What is it about that man that seems to attract females like bees to pollen? I just don’t see it.” His tone is distant, as though he is merely thinking aloud to himself, heedless of his eighteen-year-old student beside him.

“What qualities do you prefer in a man then?” Garrett asks unthinkingly, though he snaps his mouth shut with a culpable expression.

His professor’s amber eyes flick to him and Garrett Hawke feels his skin turn a particular shade of pink, but he does not look at him.

“Isn’t that an interesting question?” Elias says at last, and extracts another page from the folder while returning the bibliography to its place. He glances over it for a moment, seeming to carefully be avoiding looking at Garrett, and just as Garrett believes he has no intention of answering his spontaneous question, the professor adds an unexpected comment.

“Enthusiasm for just causes, for one. Here.” He hands Garrett over a page he’s folded. “Your introduction is well guided. It’s obvious enough how you intend to structure the paper... I can tell it has the potential to be rich and nuanced if you don't end up slacking on the rest of it. Well done so far.”

Garrett attempts to quell the mild blush creeping across his features and he can see a similar color mirrored upon the officer’s countenance several feet away. His gaze casts downward toward the piece of paper and accepts it sheepishly, opening it for a brief moment to note the professor’s impeccable penmanship before stuffing it into his bookbag.

“Thank you,” he murmurs and drains his mug self-consciously.

Elias likewise disappears into his over-sized mug of coffee in the awkward silence that follows. They seem to marinate in it for an endless period of time until finally, Garrett stirs and leans forward to set his empty cup on the table.

“I guess that’s all for today?” he asks and turns to meet the professor’s open gaze.

“It will do,” his professor responds. “Next week, try to have a full outline to accompany your annotated bibliography.”

Garrett nods and opens his mouth to kindly request his folder, but his attention is promptly derailed once more _(yes, yes, he’ll remember to refill his prescription later, okay?)_ as his eyes flick down to Elias’ shoulder. Unremarkably, the professor dons a crisp black button-down, bearing absolutely no creases and thus illustrating his meticulous nature. It is a quintessential look for him, though Garrett furrows his brow as he notices a stray length of white hair that, quite frankly, partially belies what the student has attempted to silently glean from the man.

He plucks the hair from his shoulder and holds it up to him.

“You have a cat,” he says simply.

Elias looks sharply at him as he is in the process of returning Garrett’s folder to his hands, and his eyes focus in a distracted manner on the hair his student is holding aloft triumphantly between them. Very slowly, he extends one hand and plucks the hair out of Garrett’s fingers, brushing them with his own.

“Yes, Sherlock. I have a cat.” He flicks the hair over the couch arm and into oblivion, and then returns his eyes to Garrett’s face, studying it in a moment of seeming indecision. “Two, in fact,” he adds. “Marx and Lincoln. Neither are anything less than taciturn.” He smiles.

Garrett offers his gleaming grin and a chuckle slips from his throat.

“Taciturn. Seems fitting, given their names,” he nods, “I’m more of a dog person myself.”

“That does not surprise me,” Dr. Anders comments, his smile retained on his lips. “Cats take patience and careful attention to idiosyncrasies.”

Garrett’s lips stretch fully, bright eyes twinkling, and he turns his head away. Slipping his folder into the bookbag, he stands and grabs his coat from the arm of the couch. He shrugs it on, slinging his belongings over his shoulder, and offers one last dimpled smile.

“Well then, I’ll see you in class, Dr. A.”

-ooo-

 

It is a later evening than he cares for, and past six before Dr. Elias Anders finally makes his way back to his office to collect his belongings and lock up for the night. He sees that his slight, pale secretary, Miss Merrill, is still at her desk, and he smiles tiredly at her. She always stays to see him off, even when she should have gone home an hour or more before. Indeed, she seems to have taken an interest in his well being over the years, often bringing him holiday gifts or baking him things.

She grins at him from behind her boxy computer screen. "Allo, Dr. A," she greets him with her chipper lilt. "There's a box for you."

Elias is nonplussed, as there is always something arriving that requires his attention. "I'll bother with it in the morning," he tells her, slipping his key into the door of his office.

"Oh nah," Miss Merrill says in her Irish accent. "You ought to have it now, sir." She plucks a box the size of her palm off the corner of her desk, stands, and stretches an arm out to hand it to him.

Curious, and slightly annoyed, Elias takes it from her with a nod, and finishes unlocking his door. He lets himself in, bidding her an instructive goodnight over his shoulder. Leaving the entrance ajar, he lays the box on his desk while he gathers his things, and is one motion from shoving it in his briefcase to be assessed later when he recognizes the handwriting on the outside of the brown paper.

Frowning, he unravels the twine encasing the taped sides, and peels the paper away. Inside is a small, white gift box, and he tugs the flap open. A burst of laughter spills unbidden from his lips as he recognizes what is inside. Carefully folded, it is a plastic bag full of tiny, hand stitched felt mice, and the label indicates they are filled with catnip.

Another white label, the sort used to identify folders in an office, has been plastered beneath the manufacturer's stamp, off centered. It reads, simply, _"Attention To Idiosyncrasies."_

There is no signature, but none is needed. Elias sighs deeply, fingers attempting to press out the sudden ache of muscles in his cheeks from smiling.

"You ok then, Dr. A?" Miss Merrill asks from the doorway, and he turns to find her hovering with her coat and hat on, wrapping her scarf about her neck.

"Oh. Good," he answers. Then adds, with a fluttering feeling in the pit of his stomach as he realizes how completely off guard his student, barely out of high school, has managed to put him, and how very much he likes it.

"Going straight to hell, though, I think."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Chapter art](http://winebearcat.tumblr.com/post/129635669065/incredible-art-done-by-the-insanely-talented-and) by dorian-trash.
> 
> [Chapter art](http://winebearcat.tumblr.com/post/130148451965/queen-schadenfreude-ilyahna1980) by queen-schadenfreude.


	4. Chapter 4

There are perhaps a hundred or so people in the conference room, in various states of repair at the moment. A handful of men and women in business attire congregate by a table laid with a white cloth along the sideboard that boasts bottled water and various leaflets, business cards, and other information from the speakers. Others are scattered throughout the room in the folding, padded chairs in their perfect, orderly rows before the dais at the forefront of the hall. This is the second day of the London gathering, cleverly titled _"Modern Marginalization"_ and is a series of lectures and presentations on social inequality in (unofficially but subjectively, nonetheless) first world countries.

Dr. Anders would be presenting and serving on several panels over the course of the convention, and had issued a blanket invitation for his students, along with a pointed lecture on the fact that first world problems had a fantastic ability to eclipse the rest of the rampant inequality of modern civilization. In that lecture, Garrett had easily been able to see the passionate young man that had spent two years living among the native populations of India from which his dissertation had sprung.

His professor had not mentioned in class exactly in what capacity he would be appearing as an expert, and Garrett, the only one of his students that he believes has made the trip from London in order to see him speak, felt a small thrill when he read the agenda for the weekend and found Dr. Elias Anders, PhD, alongside a lecture titled _"Barriers To Hope: Inequality Faced by the LGBTQ Community."_

Elias casts a disparaging eye on Dr. Frederick Hammond as he passes him on the steps of the stage and takes his place beside the podium. The title of his lecture appears on a projection screen behind him, as well as his credentials.

The dying applause for Dr. Hammond goes unnoticed by Garrett, who is draped lazily in his seat and has been sporting such visceral disinterest since the beginning of the blathering man’s presentation. His long limbs attempt to seek repose beneath the chair in front of him to no avail, and thus he drags them to tuck against his chest. With his chin propped in a palm, he is loudly clacking at the keys of his flip phone with a grin plastered across his features. He receives pointed glowers from those around him, yet his nose is too deeply buried within his conversation to address matters of social impertinence.

 _Yo,_ the text initially reads, _wash your fucking dishes._

Garrett swallows down a snicker as he fire offs a response, issuing a facetious remark before to the effect of: _sorry baby boy._

His childhood friend and current flatmate, a wild-haired young man with a quintessentially abysmal attitude, does not seem to share Garrett’s amusement as his phone ignites with a string of obscenities characteristic of a South Boston upbringing. Garrett laughs into his fingers as he attempts to navigate the barrage of indecencies that would normally warrant confessional and a bar of soap, yet it is beyond characteristic of their rapport.

The inception of which began over a decade ago in the socioeconomic slums of their beloved city and endured through the obstacles of time, economic disparity, and attending university abroad. Thus attempting to assuage his oldest friend, one with ink permanently etched into the flesh of both arms and a scowl across his features, Garrett promises him a compensatory bottle of liquor for when he returns to their flat at Oxford later that night.

Yet the sound of a familiar voice testing the microphone stirs him from his occupied state, and he immediately snaps his phone shut as he beholds his professor standing at the podium. Drinking in his appearance with poorly veiled admiration, eyes flick from his finely shaped features, down the length of his frame fitted in a well-cut black suit, and his lips twitch with a small smile.

"I would be standing here all day if I were to launch into the travesty of inequality and lack of opportunity which faces individuals of nontraditional sexual orientations across the globe. While great strides have certainly been made in the first world, peoples elsewhere still struggle for even basic recognition. I believe that many of our own politicians and policymakers would like to pat themselves on their collective backs for recent strides in the direction of decreasing the gap between what is considered humanity and what is beneath it, but we still have a long way to go."

He pauses and fixes the audience with a stare that Garrett knows well from class. "Modern policy currently excludes individuals in the LGBTQ community from those basic rights which many of us take for granted, such as equal, humane access to public health, social and community support, the right to marry, and equal protection for themselves and loved ones under the law. And this is not all…”

He continues in this vein as Garrett listens, and it is clear he is quite passionate about the subject. It is perhaps the only lecture that Garrett has paid full attention to this day, and he takes in every word his professor delivers with his eidetic memory, having no need to take notes as some others in the audience are doing. It is how he always conducts himself during lectures, and a source of feigned irritation by Dr. Anders, who he knows actually quite admires this trait, and possibly envies it.

This is the last lecture of the afternoon, and is concludes after a half hour with applause which definitely rivals that of Dr. Hammond, of whom Elias has vocally disapproved in the past. The crowd disintegrates as Elias leaves the stage, and Garrett unfolds himself from his chair and makes his way to a table boasting a coffee press to which Elias has gravitated.

His professor smiles at him as he approaches, and takes a sip of his coffee.  

“I’m curious as to what your thoughts are on the movement’s internal structure,” Garrett begins casually, leaning against the table. “Obviously it’s not apolitical, but would you consider it horizontal or vertical in leadership? Maybe I should look into that. Effective structuralization and tactics – it may help my paper.”

“I believe there are elements of both, but I would say perhaps it leans more to the vertical. And yes, you should look into that.”

“Make sense,” he shrugs and pops a cracker into his mouth, surveying their surroundings as he chews quietly.

Yet Garrett notices the professor’s eyes suddenly grow round, and then a voice he recognizes from the presentation prior to Dr. Anders’ resounds from behind him. Dr. Frederick Hammond.

“Professor Elias Anders,” he booms. “I was hoping you would show up at this convention. I’ve been meaning to…”

“My god, look at the time!” Elias says as he hurriedly glances in a seemingly random direction, for as Garrett’s eyes track his, he finds there is no clock. “I hate to cut you short, old chap, but I was just seeing my student here off to the train. We have a discussion to finish about his paper.” He deposits his coffee cup on the table and gives Garrett a pointed look.

“You don’t want to be late, Mr. Hawke.”

Garrett raises his eyebrows and offers a slow, languid smile for only Elias’ eyes.

“Oh, you’re right, Professor,” he affects with a nod, “where has the time gone? This was all so terribly engrossing.”

“Oh, absolutely,” Elias says, brushing past him and toward the door. “Do send an email, Hammond,” he calls over his shoulder.

Garrett follows him out dutifully, joining him in the hall in time to hear him add under his breath: “So I can promptly delete it, you pompous fool.”

“Your insolence completely belies your academic pedigree. It’s awesome,” Garrett comments, allowing the harsh accent that his own elite education has tempered out of him to surface marginally.

Elias raises both eyebrows at the hint of Boston in his words. “I am not insolent,” he claims, but punctuates this with a devious smirk. “Now, to escape. Dinner? I know your train isn’t until later.”

“Dinner?” he furrows his brow with earnest perplexion.

“Yes. Food. You do eat, do you not? There’s an excellent Japanese restaurant a block from here.”

“Sometimes. It’s probably not my most frequent form of caloric intake, but it happens,” he quips glibly, “though Japanese is definitely a favorite.”

“Well, they have alcohol too, if you prefer to maintain your system like the bulk of college students,” Elias says as he begins to make his way to the elevator, Garrett in tow.

Save for his lingering laugh, they endure the ride in silence as Garrett’s mind pools with endless thoughts. _Dinner? Together? In London? Could this be a date? No, no of course not, you dumbass, he said it himself – everybody needs to eat._ It has certainly been a long day, and as they begin to exit the building to a setting wintertime sun, he stuffs his hands into the pockets of his coat. Indeed his empty stomach, excluding watered down coffee and a single cracker, churns with some amalgamation of necessity and nervousness.

The short distance to the restaurant ensures that Garrett does not need to pull on his bright red beanie for the purpose of combatting the English chill, yet they too endure this walk without conversation. Finally, as they reach their destination and undergo the motions of unbundling, they are seated at a traditional low Japanese table. As Garrett settles on his knees, tucking his long limbs beneath him, he scans the nontraditional menu before furrowing his brow inflexibly. His confusion is swiftly met with an explanatory paragraph on the inside flap that does little to quell his discomfort, yet he discerns that his socially liberal, marginally Marxist, and environmentally conscious professor has suggested a restaurant known for its sustainable ingredient sourcing. Furthermore, the vast majority of the establishment’s creed is deeply entrenched within the ethical principle of sourcing invasive species.

His eyes glean terms such as _cricket_ , _lionfish_ , and _bullfrog_ and he sets the menu down with a sharp laugh. While he may be a carnivorous portable trash compactor, he begins to shake his head.

“Really?” he muses aloud and turns to his professor seated beside him.  

“I suggest the cricket rolls,” Elias says with an amused glint in his eye.

Indeed, this is what the professor orders, while Garrett finds something more traditional. He is surprised to find that the professor also orders a bottle of sake, a large one.

"So... what do those things taste like, exactly?" Garrett asks dubiously, after their food and drink arrive.

Elias eyes him as he finishes chewing, then takes a sip of sake before answering. "There's a delightful crunch," he responds, smirking with pleasure when Garrett winces. He uses his chopsticks to pick up a roll and holds it out to his dinner companion.

"Try one. I can't really describe it."

Garrett glances at the roll, and it is rather unremarkable save for the sizable cricket entombed in rice. He blinks, entirely hesitant, though snakes his gaze to the chopsticks perched elegantly between the professor's slender fingers. Dutifully, his lips inch forward, mouth parting slightly, and cerulean eyes flick up to meet an amber stare before he carefully takes the roll between teeth.

He flinches instinctively at the first bite, feeling the cricket crunch loudly inside his ears, though his brows beetle thoughtfully at the curious amalgamation of flavor pairings. Slugging it down with a wash of sake, he nods at the professor.

"Tastes sort of nutty," he shrugs, and idly picks at a portion of a leg from between teeth.

Elias's eyes crinkle with mirth at this vision, and he snorts shortly with laughter.

"I'm impressed, Mr. Hawke. I thought Americans only ate cheeseburgers and hot dogs." He sets his chopsticks aside and refills his cup.

"Well, I guess I'm just full of surprises, Dr. A," he grins toothily, exhibiting his triumphant success as sparkling teeth no longer bear remnants of crunchy, nutty insects.

"I'll give you that,"  Elias says. "You're the only one of my students that came to this conference, which also surprises me. I understand my students having had quite enough of listening to me,  but the fact that none of them give a damn about the concepts..." he trails off, takes another drink, and flashes Garrett a devious smile that makes his blood sing in his ears. "I will have to assign an extra paper as recompense."

"Or maybe you could give me extra credit," Garrett's lips stretch with a grin and he sips from the petite white mug. Bright eyes do not leave the professor and he bats his lashes to bolster his efforts.

Elias observes Garrett employ his considerable charisma in this playful manner, though it is difficult not to find it alluring. Elias clears his throat, realizing his smile has slipped for just a fraction of a second, and curses his seeming decline of composure.

_Damned sake._

"Why do I get the impression you always get what you want?"  he asks the young man beside him with an amused tone.

Garrett's eyes glimmer for a brief moment and he turns his head away. He bites his lip in an attempt to dampen the smile and lifts a spoonful of udon broth to blow on gently.

"I don't know what you're talking about," he murmurs before silently sipping from the wide ceramic spoon.

"Like hell," Elias says, but there is laughter under the words. "Extra credit, huh?" He is now sipping his drink, which he wonders if perhaps he should not be, and has also turned his eyes away. "There's a first time for everything, I suppose."

"Oh, I agree," he smiles to himself and fingers reach for the bottle of sake. His forearm is dangerously close to brushing the professor's, but they do not connect as Garrett pours himself another small pool of heated liquor.

"It's a lovely, open-minded way of thinking," he smirks and his gaze slides over to the professor's comportment.

Elias's amber eyes dart to him, perhaps only meaning to catch his expression after these words, but now finding himself locked in a gaze as warm and blue as a summer vista. It is entirely unnerving, and so he covers the sensation by intentionally attempting to put him equally off-balance.

"I suspected you to be an open-minded individual." He allows himself the same inflection Garrett has just employed, and returns his smirk.

"I am," he issues without missing a beat, "otherwise I wouldn't have schlepped my ass out to a conference on imperative social movements to watch you speak.”

"I'm flattered," his professor responds drolly.

"You're an excellent public speaker, but I suspect you already know that," he continues casually and drains his newly issued pour.

"Some people would argue I simply like the sound of my own voice," he answers with a self-deprecating smile. After a brief pause to finish a bite of his dinner, he adds: "Would it surprise you to know I had no desire to be a lecturer? Although I do enjoy ranting."

Garrett is mid-swallow in consuming his own meal and he chokes out a hearty laugh. "Oh, I completely believe it," he chuckles with a nod. "I bet you'd rant for hours. Written any manifestos lately, Professor? Or did you leave that up to Marx? By the way, is he enjoying the catnip?" he adds with a stretched grin.

Elias laughs aloud, midway to bringing his cup to his lips, and holds it back.

"Yes. I was not aware I was so desperately in need of half-mad felines. Quite amusing. And don't worry. I shall make my contributions to the dismantling of the social order." He smirks at him, eyes glittering.

Garrett beholds him with a wildly charmed expression for a moment, eyes now tracing the quirk of his lips, before returning to his meal.

"So, tell me," the professor adds after another sip. "Did you truly just come because you cannot get enough of listening to me talk, or is there something else about this conference that interests you?"

"I’m curious to see you dismantling the social order," he grins and begins to pour himself another cup of sake, though suddenly pauses at the professor's question. He accidentally spills the warm liquid over the edges of his small mug and quickly attempts to rectify his faux pas by dabbing pathetically with his napkin.

"Umm..." He manages, flustered, "I just think you're a fascinating speaker. You, um, offer perspectives not typically considered. And I, uh, like London."

"Yes," the professor agrees, watching Garrett fumble with the napkin, bewildered at his flustered reaction to what had been an innocent question. It begins to sink it what the young man must think he meant, and he wonders if perhaps he has misconstrued what seemed like flirtation on Garrett's part for something innocent, or simply part of his charming character. He struggles for a long moment with a desire to discern the reality of it, and then impulsively reaches out and puts his hand over Garrett's as he is dabbing the side of his cup with the napkin. The jolting motion is actually making more of the liquid slosh over the side than it is cleaning it from the table.

Garrett snaps his head to pierce the professor with a bewildered stare, and he cannot distinguish if the warm flush creeping across his nose is from the utter humiliation of the situation or from hot sake pooling in his belly. Though the professor's hand over his begins to burn an imprint into his flesh, and without thought, his fingers curl around his.

Whatever Elias expected to happen, it was not this, and he finds himself frozen with Garrett's warm fingers curled around his. He has meant to still the erratic evidence of the young man's nerves, and admittedly, to test his burgeoning theory, but now he is, quite literally, caught. A muscle in his stomach contracts, and they stare at each other in what amounts to a mixture of guilt, surprise, and... fascination? Then, as though handling a fragile bird, Elias very gently extracts his hand, taking the damp napkin with him. He does, however, allow his thumb to purposefully graze Garrett's palm, slowly, realizing all the while that he is crossing a line.

He looks away, to give them both a moment to recover, and busies himself with mopping up the sake from the cloth and setting the cup to rights.

Garrett's burning palm slips from the table and thuds against his thigh unceremoniously. His eyes are wide, vacant, as his gaze drills into his scarcely touched meal. His features are now viscerally alight with shame and chagrin, mouth parting lightly to mentally castigate himself for his brash folly.

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Elias drain the remainder of his cup. He is waiting for the other man to say something such as, " _perhaps it's time to call it an evening_ ," but instead, he merely grasps the bottle on the table and refills his drink, then tips it over Garrett's cup.

Garrett watches as the professor kindly refills it and he licks his bottom lip out of nervous habit.

"You must already know that I'm a fool boy, but maybe if you called me one again I'd somehow feel better about... That..." he mumbles and graciously accepts the cup to fling down his throat.

"I've always used that moniker fondly," Dr. Anders offers instead, and risks glancing up at him.

 _What in the hell are you doing Elias?_ he thinks to himself.

"Fondly?" Garrett asks and now dares to look at him, "you're saying that you cherish my idiocy to some capacity?"

"I don't spend this much time with all my students," he responds automatically.

Garrett parts his lips to speak, though he can conjure no response. Instead, his eyes flick to linger upon the professor's mouth before he flashes a sheepish yet dazzling grin.

"So then my idiocy isn't too deterring," he chuckles with remnants of color splashed across his features.

Elias raises an eyebrow at him. "Come now, Hawke," he says. "When have you ever been accused of being deterring?" He drains half his cup before he realizes exactly what he has said, then he adds hastily "Or an idiot?"

"Deterring... I'm not sure," Garrett smiles and finally pours out the remaining contents of the sake bottle. Watching the last drop slip out with rapt attention, he slides his gaze over to meet the professor's.

"Idiocy... Probably that B-minus you gave me, which earned me quite the eye roll from my mother," he begins to laugh with good nature.

Elias smirks at this and says: “Well you earned that B-minus, Garrett.”

 _Garrett?_ How can it be odd for one's own name to sound both exotic and strange on the lips of another person? Is it because he has never heard it fall from Dr. Elias Anders' mouth? Until this moment, he has always been "Mr. Hawke," the formal visage of himself. The spoon making its way to his lips to finish the last of his dinner is arrested, just briefly, as appreciation for the sound, with its part Danish and part British lilt, echoes in his skull, which is already feeling equal parts muddled and thrilled at this experience. Does he dare to feel the latter? The professor, who has haunted him in the dark hours of night for months, could indeed have reacted with revulsion or hostility at his unintended gesture mere minutes before, but had he not been gentle instead? Is he encouraging him? They finish their dinner with no other notable incident, and with meaningless chatter that all fades into the background noise of the questions that now taunt him.

They are once again spilled upon the streets of London some short time later, bundled against the cold, and are walking quietly together with some unspoken mutual consensus, perhaps, toward the convention center where the professor also had his hotel room. The train station which Garrett would use to return to Oxford is in an entirely different direction, and it seems they both are conveniently neglecting to realize this. That is, until they reach the revolving glass door of the convention center, and it seems to suddenly cross both their minds at the same time, and they find themselves standing awkwardly outside.

Elias stares up across the few inches of height that separates him from the young man whose education he is supposed to be responsible for, and finds himself wishing that he... that either of them... were someone else at this moment. Garrett, for he has started to think of him this way, dangerously, glows with a healthy rose flush, and the clarity of the winter air seems to make those blue eyes impossibly bright, and his lips look terribly warm. Every fiber of his being wants to dismiss propriety, to invite him upstairs, to taste him, and feel his hands upon him. Even now, the ghost of his touch at the restaurant leaves nerves ignited.

Garrett begins to fiddle with his beanie apprehensively, tugging it down over his ears and clearing his throat. He offers a strained laugh and a curt smile, peering at the professor openly. Yet his eyes are crinkled at the behest of splitting two bottles of sake, and indeed this warmth pools in his belly. Desire quickly follows, however, when his lips part slightly and he peers down at his professor. His sharp nose is pink with cold, and Garrett considers peppering it with the heat of his lips, trailing down to capture his mouth at last, though he merely blinks instead. He begs the professor internally, begs to be asked inside _(they are in London, away from Oxford and prying eyes)_ , imploring with a twinkling gaze and a small wrinkle upon his brow, yet they remain silent.

At last, after it seems they have stared at one another for far too long in silence, Elias exhales a breath that freezes in a cloud of steam between them. His eyes noticeably flick to Garrett's lips, and he bites the inside of his cheek before finally forcing out the words:

"I suppose I will see you Monday... Garrett."

 


	5. Chapter 5

Dr. Elias Anders, professor of social justice, slips through the door of the conference room where he is expected this day to dispense just that: justice. Or punishment, as Meredith Stannard would probably have it. _To hell with her, and to hell with this committee._

He sips a large coffee, juggling that in one hand and his briefcase in the other, and thinks of all the things he'd rather be doing this morning besides serving on the disciplinary committee: catching up on grading, preparing lectures, giving himself paper-cuts in the webbing of his fingers and squeezing lemon juice into them.... But no. He wants tenure some day: that elusive, desirous stability all professors strive for, so he must play the part of a dutiful cog in the machine. The fact that he has been assigned to _this_ committee is either irony or Fate has a sense of humor.

He settles into his seat behind the table, offering only a toneless noise in greeting to Stannard, whom he does not have time or patience for. The woman is rigid, and cares more about control than she does about the lives they affect here, sitting in inglorious judgment of what amounts to, by and large, little more than youthful ignorance, lack of accountability, and the failure to exercise personal freedoms without getting caught.

He rests his briefcase to the side of his chair and smirks, thinking that were he ever to have gone up against such a committee for some of the things he had done, some of the mischief he and his flatmates had gotten up to in his reprehensible youth, he would have been tossed out of school by his ear. There is a rumor he is party to that the students who face this committee actually breathe a sigh of relief when they see him enter the room, for he is apparently known for his leniency. Realism is more like it, he thinks, and glances up.

 _Oh for God's sake._ His face immediately shifts into a visage of stone lest he burst into laughter. Sitting and awaiting his judgment this morning is none other than Garrett Hawke, ensconced beside a devilishly dispassionate looking young man with tattoos trailing the length of his arms. Suddenly, he recalls the conversation in the coffee shop, where Garrett had mentioned his impending "trial," but it had not occurred to him at the time that coincidence would juxtapose them in this manner.

And yet here they are.

Similarly, as Garrett finishes settling into his seat, he freezes upon locking eyes with the taciturn professor. Such paralysis is sluggish to thaw, only managing to mitigate at the sharp raise of an eyebrow from his companion beside him. The look, equal parts anathematic and inquisitive, flickers for a moment behind a splash of green eyes now furrowed with his best friend’s quintessential glower.

He quickly sheds any indication of disbelief, however, and swivels his head back to Dr. Anders with a massive grin. Before he can offer an enthusiastic remark, Dean Stannard, what with her steely gaze embedded in a bedrock of wrinkles and floundering youth (bitter about it too, no doubt) clears her throat with contemptuous demand.

“Mr. Robert Fenris,” she punctuates the thick atmosphere with a haughty tone, “you do realize that this is a disciplinary hearing? Had you not considered to wear appropriate attire for such an occasion?”

Piercing him now with a frigid stare, Garrett watches as his friend affects two slow blinks.

“What?” he demands, and the harsh Boston accent falls out of his mouth like lead.

“I am disappointed that you appear to have treated this hearing with such ill disrespect,” she gestures at him aimlessly, “this is Oxford. An elite institution renowned for the merits of knowledge, justice, and diligence. It has been entrenched in academic repute for nearly a millennium, bolstered by the proper English virtues that we seek to impart upon every student here. Have some integrity and wear appropriate attire if you are summoned by a judicial system older than your own country.”

She is of course referring to his faded black _Gwar_  t-shirt that has endured too many moshpits and too little wash cycles. Further, the cut of the tee reveals his full sleeve tattoos traversing both arms and elucidating the wide spectrum of his emotional continuum, with notable points of visceral anger, humor, insolence, and apathy. Thus juxtaposed with the dowdy, faded tweed blazer of the Dean and the pressed uniform of Officer Rutherford beside her, he certainly would never make the front cover of a prospective student pamphlet.

“Are you fu–“ he begins with an incensed sneer, though immediately falters with a hiss as Garrett grinds his heel into his foot beneath the table.

“You’re incorrect, Dean Stannard,” Garrett interjects and snaps his gaze to her.

“This isn’t a common law hearing. This system of justice is not employed within a public sector. It’s private, as Oxford is a private institution. Disciplinary hearings were revised in the seventies, and therefore your assertion that the establishment of the United States is preceded by a three-decade old bureaucratic revision simply rings false. I shall also duly add that the inception of our _globally hegemonic nation_ was a product of unjust colonial practices and marginalized dissatisfaction with His Majesty’s “virtues.” Of course, reiterating revolutionary history before such brilliant minds as yours would be trite,” he shrugs with a smile.

“Further,” he continues, “any and all judicial consequences decreed upon a student of poor standing with the institution remain within the system. It’s on page forty-two of the student handbook, which is about thirty-five pages after where it indicates there is no dress code required of an individual attending such a wondrous, prestigious university.”

Meredith Stannard's lips part by degrees during this speech, eloquently delivered, and the moment Garrett falls silent, lips curved in a self-satisfied smile that still manages to be charming (though perhaps not to her, at this moment), she sucks in a deep breath no doubt to dispute some part of his claim. Or label him as out of turn. However, she is interrupted by a sudden, incongruous sound, pitched low and muffled, but recognizable and obvious as all heads in the room swivel to Dr. Elias Anders. The imperturbable professor is _laughing,_ making only a half-hearted attempt to hide his amusement with two hands over his lower face. His elbows are pressed into the table to either side of his coffee cup, and his shoulders vibrate with undisguised mirth.

Dean Stannard, seated to his right, draws back as though struck, for her surprise is multi-faceted. First, that any professor would not take these reputable proceedings with anything but the utmost seriousness, and further, that it should be this particular professor that has unraveled in such an undignified manner. She glares at him as his glittering amber eyes shift to her briefly, and he clears his throat and folds his hands before him, lips pressed together hard between his teeth to quell his rife amusement.

Dean Stannard is too cultured and too formal to berate him in public for his deviation from propriety, but her frigid stare speaks volumes in itself. Elias's eyes flick behind her to Officer Rutherford, who is gazing at Garrett Hawke with a furrowed brow and looks somewhat constipated, and beyond him, Professor Orsino, the head of Elias's department, is staring at the ceiling while trying to keep his face in order.

Elias clears his throat. "Quite sorry, Meredith," he says, accidentally letting slip his hold on formality. He cannot look at Garrett, for he can feel the young man's eyes boring into him with gleeful amusement at his own damnably clever mouth.

"I should say so," the dean huffs. "Perhaps you would like to chair the remainder of this proceeding?"

Elias raises both eyebrows above the rim of his glasses and quells the urge to say _"Absolutely! You're both excused and have a nice day,"_ but he nods and dutifully calls on the two miscreant youth to read (or recite from memory, in Garrett's case) the honor code of the university, and then stand and expound upon their violations. Through it all, he avoids meeting Garrett's eyes, and is forced to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from smiling.

The two drone out their university’s honor code, Garrett with a glinting grin and his companion a sneer, garbling out:

_We will never, by any selfish or other unworthy act, dishonor this our University; individually and collectively we will foster her ideals and do our utmost to instill a respect in those among us who fail in their responsibility; unceasingly we will strive to quicken a general realization of our common duty and obligation to our University. And thus in manifold service we will render our Alma Mater greater, worthier, and more beautiful._

Finally, Garrett clears his throat and dips his gaze to the crisp sheet of paper in his hands.

“I, Garrett Hawke, first year, am accused of excessive consumption of alcohol in addition to vandalism of university property,” he reads out loud in a clear voice and the relatively applied statement drones out of Fenris’ mouth in succession.

Dean Stannard peers at them derisively before nodding once.

“Right. Now Officer Rutherford, please read your report,” she turns her head to him and he blinks several times.

“Oh, yes, ehm, of course,” he nods quickly and begins to shuffle the papers lain before him.

“Ehm,” he clears his throat nervously, “while posted as the Center rounds officer, I, Officer Rutherford, was dispatched to the Central Quad for a noise complaint and non-compliant group. Officer Samson was in the area and accompanied me. We arrived at Central Quad and discovered the students, Garrett Hawke and Robert Fenris, vandalizing the sidewalk on the northwestern corner of the quad at 1:32 in the morning on the twelfth of February. Both students had a half-gallon of vodka and numerous cans of beer, in addition to possessing a single can of aerosol paint. Mr. Fenris was in the process of –“

He suddenly pauses to turn a mild shade of pink and Dean Stannard raises her eyebrows. “Ehm,” he continues as the color flushes across his cheeks, “in the process of completing his creation, which appeared to be a representation of a phallic object. And, ehm, I –“

He looks up to behold both the accused attempting to swallow down their laughter, and Garrett winks at him. A sear of crimson floods his face and he immediately ducks his head down to continue. “Both students were nearly belligerent, at which point I took down their information and had them clean up their remaining alcohol.”

It is then left to the accused to deliver their defense, which task seems by tacit agreement to fall to Garrett Hawke. He stands before the committee while Fenris lurks beside him with an air of disdain in his posture, and extols what Elias finds to be a remarkable epitaph comprised mostly of long syllables and finely woven bullshit. Meredith squints at Garrett throughout, Rutherford is mumbling to himself, while he and Dr. Orsino, department chair of social policy and intervention, both dutifully take notes. Elias, unlike Orsino, is forced to appear to prop his chin in his free hand while he uses his palm to shade a face he keeps carefully turned away from Dean Stannard. For he cannot help the smile that remains plastered on his lips for the entirely of this eloquent diatribe.

It is, indeed, an epitaph, for there is little way for these two to be unwoven from their tapestry of misdeeds: there were two campus security guards as witnesses, who would always fall higher in Meredith's favor, and there was the problem of a photograph of this... phallic object... which Meredith compelled a blushing Officer Rutherford to present while Robert Fenris smirked like a pleasantly guilty feline.

In the end, Stannard had Elias read their punishment: forty hours of community service to be completed between the hours of six P.M. on Friday night and six P.M. on Sunday evening. Watching the boys’ faces fall at this, Elias is forced to fight back a grin, remembering his own college youth, when he and his flatmate Elissa Cousland were shackled with a very similar duty.

Luckily for his sanity, as he could not possibly take anything else after this experience, this is the only hearing of the morning, and so he files out afterward with the other professors, in the wake of two tired college boys with slumped shoulders.

They are hovering in the door that opens to the chilly outer air of the campus quad, across which Elias must now skirt to reach his classroom, and the professor catches a few snarled syllables from Robert Fenris who is gesticulating angrily before his friend in no particular direction. The tattooed young man sees him approaching, for he must pass them to exit, and rolls his eyes, shoving out the glass door with a shoulder and stalking in the opposite direction. Meanwhile, Garrett spots his professor and his lips stretch with an immediate grin.

“So,” he chuckles, “you’ve now met Rob.”

Elias offers him a lazy, droll smile as the younger man holds the door open for him and he slips past into the English winter.

“Indeed. And which of you is the bad influence?”

“I’d plead the fifth, but it seems the United States Constitution doesn’t apply here,” he smirks.

Elias mimics this expression impulsively. “I do believe you did manage to educate Dean Stannard from your upstart American point of view, however” he adds. “I am considering assigning you extra work for inspiring me to make a fool out of myself in there.” He cannot say the last without humor in his voice at the memory.

Both pause at the bicycle rack located immediately outside the building and Elias watches as Garrett unchains his bright red contraption.

“Professor, I was born and bred in Boston,” he laughs with lit eyes, “you should assume by now that rebellion and smartassery are inherent traits for me. I nearly asked her what tea she prefers. I’ll bring that to the next party.”

“As opposed to dumping it overboard? And smartassery?” Elias tries this word out on his tongue, earning a grin from Garrett as the two begin to cross toward the Social Sciences building. It seems he would be spending half his morning with Garrett Hawke, as he would undoubtedly be in his usual, distracting place in the front row of his lecture hall in thirty minutes time.

“I should like to attempt to employ that term in an academic setting at some point,” he muses, trying, but failing, to ignore the fact that they are walking closely enough that their shoulders are nearly brushing.

“Please do,” Garrett’s grin deepens, “I’d love to see that in a peer-reviewed article.”

Elias slides his eyes to him, and his expression adopts a serious cast. “And I would love to see _you_ in a peer-reviewed article, so try not to get yourself expelled. We may both find authority contemptible, but don’t test her, Garrett.”

“Is she known for doling out expulsions?” he asks sincerely, considering his words with a thoughtful expression.

“I’ve seen her ruin some very fine students, yes. And there’s only so much anyone can do about it. Especially me. Sometimes I think she assigned me to that committee just to get under my skin. If I couldn’t quote policy at her as succinctly as you, she might be even more harsh than she already is.”

“Not a proponent of justice, are you?” he teases and nudges him lightly with his shoulder. “But, yes thank you. It seems you’re a good spirit to have on my side at disciplinary hearings.”

Elias glances at Garrett’s shoulder as he nudges him, then turns his eyes up to his face, furrowing his brow with concern. “There’s justice and there’s vengeance. I don’t know what she has against youth or idealism, but, like I said. There’s only so much I can do. Even if I’d like to.”

Garrett nods in comprehension as they complete crossing the quad and tuck themselves into the carved out nook beside the building where this particular bicycle rack is located.

“We have half an hour before class,” he issues casually as he pulls his lock from the deep pocket of his coat.

“Indeed,” Elias says, and takes a sip of the coffee still in his hand. It is cold, and he makes a face. “Too bad that’s not enough time to go get more coffee.” He offers a smile at this, considering that is where the two of them will be this afternoon for their weekly meeting to discuss Garrett’s paper. He realizes only belatedly that he is smiling because it is a fond thought.

“We can get some more after class,” Garrett offers cheerfully, as if able to read his thoughts, while beginning to chain his bike to the rack.

“You’re buying. You’re the reason this cup is cold to begin with,” Elias answers in a tone that he immediately recognizes as flirtatious, because he knows himself. It startles him to hear the way the words fall out of his mouth, for they were spontaneously spoken, and he finds himself feeling very much the proverbial deer in headlights, wondering if his exceptionally intuitive student will perhaps not notice. Even his own manner seems suggestive of something other than a casual encounter, he notices suddenly, and he peels himself off the wall where he has been leaning at ease.

Though Garrett does notice, both out of his keen sense of perception and an extensive experience with receiving the payments of flirtation and compliments. Both by the grace of his charm and physical beauty, which he now turns upon his professor with a smile, Garrett slowly appraises him with his glimmering stare.

“That’s fair,” he agrees in a lowered tone, “I definitely owe you. I’ll even buy you a pastry too. Unfortunately I won’t have chopsticks to feed you with.”

Elias instantly bites down hard on the inside of his bottom lip, and blesses the freezing English air that habitually burnishes his fair skin with a healthy flush.

“Can’t have everything,” he murmurs, and then pinches his own thigh in frustration. _You’re flirting with your eighteen year old student, Elias. You’re going to hell. Stop._

Garrett takes a step toward him, perhaps standing a tad too close, and gazes at him past thick lashes.

“You… _could_ theoretically,” he murmurs, “though I’m not sure how much you dabble in theory, Professor. I’ve read most of your papers and you seem to be a man of action.”

Elias, for all his thirty years and perhaps infinitely more experience than this boy, finds himself simply staring, transfixed and completely unable to force words past his slightly parted lips. He feels the minuscule blur in his vision that he knows means his pupils have dilated, and doubts sincerely that Garrett does not notice. He is transported back to that instance outside the hotel when he was mere words from inviting him upstairs, throwing caution to the wind, but there is an element to this moment that lends an extra degree of force to his undeniable compulsion. Yes, Garrett Hawke is very pleasing on the eyes, but Elias is not so without recourse or self-control as to give in to the base instinct of physical attraction. Garrett is _bright_ , astute, engaging. Elias _likes_ him.

"You realize I could get in a lot of trouble for this," he says, for they both know what the word _this_ implies and there is no reason to pretend otherwise. “There are rules against professors and students… fraternizing.”

Garrett’s eyes flick over his shoulder to the eerily silent quad deadened by both the wintertime chill and the odd between-classes hour. He suddenly casts his gaze downward, between the minimal space separating their feet, before dragging it up to meet the professor’s amber stare.

“I know,” he sighs resignedly, yet suddenly places a hand on his arm, “I…”

Though he cannot find the words to explicate his remaining thoughts. Indeed, the eloquent walking stream of consciousness that is Garrett Hawke finds himself silent as he gazes at Elias. He feels the wiry bulk of a bicep beneath his coat and knows he has crossed a new line entirely. His lips part with an expression of uncertainty and his cheeks suddenly mirror that of Rutherford’s not even fifteen minutes prior. He is an entirely different vision of himself in this moment, further expounded by the heat of Elias beneath his palm.

Elias stares into the mesmerizing cerulean gaze, more aware than ever of the few inches in height that Garrett has on him, forcing him with his proximity to tilt his chin upward. The wind tugs at his blonde hair, freeing several strands to blow across his forehead and nose. He had not put on his hat for the short walk, having not intended to be skulking in a corner with his student. He is not cold, however. Anything but.

He says nothing about the hand on his arm, nor gives Garrett any indication that he objects to it. Because he doesn't. _But damned if he should._

As they said in his field, sometimes a lack of objection was as potent as objection itself.

“I want to see you,” Garrett admits with entreat lacing his tone, finally finishing his folly thought.

Elias feels the pull of his plea viscerally, but ethics, practicality, and self-preservation force the words out of his mouth: "Not while you're my student, Garrett. But afterward..." He means to say _maybe_ , but that caveat vanishes into silence.

“Are you referring to May or three years from now?” Garrett asks as his breath catches in his throat.

 _Too late for it now, Anders_ , he thinks to himself, and sighs, breath spilling into a cloud of steam in the air between them. “How about you don’t take any more classes with me,” he answers, and then smirks. “As difficult for anyone as that might be.”

Garrett searches his face with slightly dilated pupils and bites his lip so that he doesn’t lunge forward to take the professor with a kiss.

“What about rules?” he nearly whispers and Elias’ smirk deepens, eyes creasing.

“I cherish breaking rules.”

 


	6. Chapter 6

It is Thursday night, traditionally a night that Elias spends away from all semblance of work: no grading papers, no working on his own writings. Instead, he made every effort to see his best friend, Elissa Cousland. They had missed their date the week before due to the convention in London, but this evening they sit in a traditional French restaurant, and Elias finds himself uncharacteristically apprehensive. The conversation with Garrett Hawke that morning is fresh in his mind, and a logical part of him knows he should not have had it. There is a secret, sinking part of him that fears she will tell him this same thing when he reveals it to her. For he reveals everything to her, good and bad.

Elias holds his glass of Merlot out to Elissa, tilted. “It’s been too long since I’ve seen you,” he says. “An entire, grueling two weeks.”

“To reunion,” she smiles warmly and chinks his glass with hers. “May the world mourn its loss of short-lived reprieve.”

Elias chuckles, and takes a sip after swirling the liquid languidly around the sides of the glass, beneath his nose.

“Mmm… this makes me miss the French countryside. Remember the summer we spent there? The first time I got drunk around your parents? Told everyone I was going to drop out of school and buy a vineyard? So much shame.” The glint in his eye and the way the corner of his lips lift suggests he is not as ashamed as he pretends.

“No shame to be had. If anything it added to their fondness of you,” she smirks and sips liberally from her glass before setting it. “In fact, it’s why father insists on gifting you a case of _Château Mont-Redon_ every Christmas. You’ve imparted quite an impression upon His Lordship,” she adds with a wry grin.

Elias and Elissa had met as first years at the prestigious University of Cambridge one balmy autumn day. Sharing a course on Introduction to Anthropology quickly led to sharing a habitual post-class cigarette, eventually followed by a flat, a mildly chubby cat who would later be dubbed Marx, and an irrefutable bond forged out of a penchant for Marlboro Lights, Tolstoyan literature, and bottom shelf liquor. However, the harsh edge of irreverent youth has been sanded away by the passage of time, decreeing that their mediums of rebellion have shifted from crushed packets of cigarettes and well shots to critical analysis driven by the ire of a pen. Bolstered by academic pedigrees that would otherwise belie their questionable youth, both Dr. Cousland and Dr. Anders employ the vision of “success.”

She is tall in stature, cursed with a fair English complexion that smears freckles across her shapely nose and cheeks. A product of excellent genes, no doubt, for the daughter of Lady Eleanor and Lord Bryce Cousland has been graced with indisputable beauty. Yet she bears the same shade of dark blonde hair as her closest friend before her, another trait that they share, often resulting in the mistaken claim of fraternal twins. Thus Elias and Elissa, for even their names ring similarly, have embraced it, insisting to various bartenders, potential love interests, and the other throughout their tenure of friendship that they are indeed twins. It is an assertion that even the Cousland family has long ago tacitly adopted. Along with Elias, who had been orphaned at the age of twelve.

"I gathered there was a jest in there somewhere with the _Mont-Redon_ ," Elias smiles.

They share their wine in companionable silence for a moment, during which the server places a wooden board with an array of baguette slices and an accompaniment of soft, delicate butter between them. A traditional aesthetic, no less, though as Elissa begins to reach for a piece, Elias asks:

"What is the most trouble I ever managed to get myself into since you've known me?"

“Hm,” she pauses to ruminate upon the question as her nimble fingers pick at a slice. “Possibly the time they arrested you at Trafalgar.”

Elias laughs, a splutter that causes him to have to pull his glass of wine back from his lips. “Oh that was fun. Good thing you bailed me out. I’m too much of a princess for jail.”

“Indeed. You rival Her Majesty’s particularities,” she agrees with a sharp laugh, “and yes, it may have been father’s bill but it was Karl’s charm that expedited the bailing process. She presses her lips to her glass again, eyes glimmering with nostalgia and fondness.

Elias pauses with the slice of bread halfway to his lips when Elissa says the name Karl, and a look of sadness passes over his features. Karl, a handsome and opinionated law student, had been his first, and only, love, though that had not ended well with young, hot-headed Elias. He takes a bite, chewing while he lets these thoughts return to the recesses of his consciousness, where he has kept them safely buried.

He sets his glass down, and picks up a slice of another slice of bread, proceeding to spread butter over it in a contemplative fashion. He is smiling now, thinking of the incident during which he had been part of a protest that had gotten out of hand, but then his expression slowly fades.

“I’m afraid I may be getting myself into even more trouble currently,” he confides, glancing up at her sheepishly from over the rims of his glasses.

“Oh? What brand of trouble?” her mouth quirks, intrigued, an eyebrow arched with it.

“I might have been in the process recently of developing an infatuation with…. someone I shouldn’t be. One of my students.” His glass of wine returns immediately to his hand and he hides behind it, waiting for her response.

The eyebrow arches higher as her lips now tuck with a small frown. She sets her glass down once more, shoulders heaving with a shallow sigh.

“Elias. You’re joking.”

Elias’ brow furrows and his nose wrinkles in an expression of chagrin. “I’m terrible, aren’t I? I haven’t done anything about it.” His already pale features blanch. “Ok that isn’t entirely true. There has been some coffee. And… dinner. And there might have been a conversation about mutual interest.” He takes a long drink of his wine as he watches her reaction.

She peers at him in disbelief and dramatically leans halfway across the table, shedding any and all grace that her upbringing had drilled into her.

“How old is he?” she demands in a half-whisper, brow deeply furrowed.

Elias mumbles something, too indistinct for her to hear, into his glass.

“I didn’t hear that,” she scowls and nudges his foot with hers.

“Eighteen,” Elias says unhappily, biting his bottom lip and squinting at her, waiting for the inevitable chastisement, for he is sure she will not approve.  

Elissa has long been Elias's sounding stone, his voice of reason, whether to advise him with amused earnestness upon a particular combination of clothing, the unacceptable attributes of a potential date, or the sub-par life choices more common to his youth.

Her bright eyes round visibly, jaw unhinging, though she immediately snaps it shut and crams a slice of bread into her mouth. “ _Je-uhz-fuh-in-chrift, Ewias_ ,” she issues, her full mouth quashing the string of curses attempting to leave her throat. Chewing tactlessly, anxiously, she swallows it down as her mother's chastising tone hisses inside her ear for such a garish display of manners.

“ _Elias,_ ” she finally groans in exasperation.

Elias feels his pallid cheeks erupt in an instant flush, even though he had expected this reaction. It is confirmation that he is a fool, deluding himself into thinking that even with ultimatums about _not taking any more of his classes,_ he is stepping outside boundaries established by society for reasons exceeding the simply puritanical.

"I know," he says miserably, and sighs, holding his glass against the table and staring into the red liquid. "It would be easier if I was not genuinely so damn fond of him."

“I don’t doubt that he’s lovely… I just – you do remember when we were eighteen, don’t you? What we were doing? Where our heads were at? You exist in different worlds. Not to mention you could end up in an endless amount of trouble,” she shakes her head, eyes flooded with concern, and she pulls from her glass of wine.

Elias does not meet her eyes, drumming his fingers on the table as he swirls his wine hypnotically. "Yes, I remember what I was like when I was eighteen. Not so different from him. I suppose I should never have let things get this far."

“I should hope that he has the sense not to say anything at this point,” she sighs, “I… I just really don’t want you to lose your job. You worked too hard for it. Don’t throw it away on a cute kid.”

Elias glances up at her sharply now. “I haven’t slept with him,” he insists. “And I had not planned on it.” The color on his cheeks deepens slightly. “Not while he is a student of mine, at least,” he admits.

“Wait until he graduates,” she shrugs, “then play out all of your power dynamic fantasies to your cock – _heart’s_ \- content. You will be the envy of every aging old bat, myself included. But not now.”

Elias’ lips part at this statement and his eyes grow round beneath drawn brows. “Power dynamic fantasies? I do have some depth, my dear. It’s not _all_ about my cock.”

“You wield immense power over this young lad’s potentially bright future,” she teases. “And yes, while it may not all be about your cock, I’m fairly certain that holds false for your dear student. Do remember that while you have depth, it’s quite possible that he simply does not.”

There is a lull in the conversation as their dinner arrives. Elias takes a few bites, but is too lost in his own thoughts to even taste the meal. He turns over Elissa's words, realizing that while he has acknowledged the possibility that Garrett Hawke is driven by the allure of the very power dynamics Elissa has mentioned, as well as the virility of a young man, he has not contemplated that Garrett has no depth of character. If he does not, he has masked it well behind a veneer of convincing passion, assiduity, and alluring verve.

"I am not sure I believe that," he says finally. "Though you do give me pause, as always."

Silence settles once more between them, and she takes a prolonged moment to appraise her dearest friend. Her gaze softens and she sighs, reaching for the bottle between them to pour them both another glass of wine.

“Elias, just be careful,” she says quietly, her tone hushed and ambiguous as it balances precariously between resigned clearance and low warning.  

Elias gazes at his truest friend with eyes that smolder in the atmospherically candle-dim light of the restaurant, his expression blank for a moment as he registers the layers of her tone. Finally, he offers her a slowly spreading smile in return.

“Careful. I’ll try. But you know that’s not my strong suit.”

 

-ooo-

 

Elias and Garrett sit across from each other as the professor has his head dipped in concentration. His amber eyes scan the first two pages of Garrett’s rough draft, wrist poised accordingly with a heavy fountain pen perched between his fingers. He is uncharacteristically wearing his dark blue blazer while seated today, for the heating in his office had seemingly stopped working overnight. After a huffy complaint to physical plant, he remains in several layers of clothing within the confines of his most cherished space. Even for a Scandinavian, the winter chill that has seeped in through the window gives him cause to shiver mildly.

Consequently, Garrett’s coat remains zipped to the neck and he is nearly halfway draped over the sturdy desk. With an elbow propped up and his chin squashed lazily into his palm, his eyes flick across the décor that has already rooted into memory. After a moment of languid observation, he finally settles on the engrossed professor. His brow is mildly furrowed as the strokes of the pen dance their way down the first page, and Garrett sighs softly as a result. He drinks in his appearance thoroughly, a small smile tugging at his lips, before his gaze falls upon the cuff-link of his blazer.

Its polish has faded with age, though bears the mark of tradition and pride. He suddenly reaches for it with his fingers, thumbing it slightly as his hand gently curls around his wrist.

“Where did you get this?” he remarks affably, his chin still tucked comfortably into his palm.

Those whiskey colored eyes, which so often haunt both his dreams and his sunlight reminiscences, flick up to him in an expression he recognizes as surprise. It calls Garrett's attention to the fact that while he is demonstrating genuine, flightful curiosity, he is also holding the slender, fine-boned wrist beneath the professor's blazer. Elias's pulse beats there, warm beneath Garrett's fingers, and without thought for propriety - for have they not stepped over that line? - he allows himself to trace the jut of a wrist bone while looking innocently into Elias's face for his answer.

The professor induces the moment to linger without a response, perhaps judging whether to pull away, but then his eyes slowly turn down to the silver and onyx cuff link that Garrett has indicated with his touch.

"It was my grandfather's," he admits at last, softly, and continues to regard it. Or regard the contact of fingers about his wrist.

“It’s very beautiful,” Garrett says softly, a fraction above a murmur.

He casts his gaze upon it, bright eyes framed by thick lashes that flutter slowly. His hand remains, only moving his thumb so as to continue appraising the keepsake.

"Thank you," Elias murmurs. "It was his father's before him. There are many interesting... treasures, I suppose, in my family home in Copenhagen. Two generations of archaeologists, after all."

His wrist twitches, and for a moment Garrett thinks is going to pull it away, but when the younger man leans forward to inspect it more closely, Elias merely glances at the door, then back, and remains still, caught.

“What kind of archaeology?” he inquires, genuinely interested.

He raises his eyes to finally meet the professor’s, fingers maintaining their tender hold.

"Egyptian, actually. For one. And the Roman legacy of England, for the other."

Finally, he exhales deeply, and very gently draws his hand back from Garrett's grip, eyes flicking to the door yet again, and back to meet Garrett's gaze. He moistens his lips with his tongue in a mildly protracted fashion, and it seems he wants to say something, but does not.

No admonishment.

He returns his attention to the paper on his desk, rubbing the back of his neck with the hand he has withdrawn from Garrett, drawing Garrett's eyes to the trail of ginger freckles that disappear into the neckline of his blazer. Elias stares at rough draft, pen poised but unmoving, eyes not tracking, and so not reading. Then he finally says:

"Did you find a copy of Mansfield's book yet?"

“Oh, shit,” Garrett suddenly expels at the reminder, “no, erm, no. Not yet.”

Elias sets his pen down, abruptly pushing back his chair to rise. Garrett thinks his admission has irritated the professor, but then he catches a fond curl of one corner of Elias's lips.

"Too busy painting... phallic objects... on University property, no doubt," he muses as he rounds his desk to approach one of the myriad bookcases lining the walls of his office. He pauses before it, and begins to peruse its contents, one finger trailing lovingly over the spines as he searches for a title.

Garrett turns to watch him, eyes trailing the length of his lanky frame from behind. He drinks in his rusted blonde hair, pulled back into its ubiquitous half-ponytail, gliding down his backside as he lingers for an extra moment on the fitted cut of his trousers around his waist. Teeth find his bottom lip and he draws his brows up, attempting to ground himself to the spot lest he pin his professor up against the bookcase in a moment of raw need.

Though what shred of willpower he employs fractures almost immediately and he rises to glide toward the unsuspecting professor. He bites his lip harder as he closes in on him, finally pausing directly behind without physically touching the man. Yet Elias, who had been quietly thumbing through his personal collection, suddenly freezes as he senses his student’s presence inches from his frame. His shoulders tense and Garrett swallows thickly, expecting a biting rebuff for his suffocating proximity, though he only receives silence. Thus, carefully, slowly, he places a hand on Elias’ hip, gripping him gently as he steps closer. His heart is thundering between his ears, vision blurring, and he presses his cheek to the underside of his neck to bury his nose into a sea of soft blonde hair.

Elias is indeed still, tense, like an animal who has been cornered at last by a predator. A demon of desire, flooding him with its sensations of carnal need, lust, and an aching longing to cast aside prudence and warnings. To suddenly find himself pinned against this bookcase by the lithe body that shadows him now, to feel the graze of teeth upon his ear, hands upon his skin. He is holding his breath, his mind screaming for caution though his body does not obey.

The hand on his hip tightens, though not roughly, and draws his own lithe frame back. There is no force to Garrett's gesture, and it is Elias's own feet which respond, shifting so that he is pressed against him. Even through Garrett's winter jacket, he can feel the hard planes, wrought by an active lifestyle, and the younger man's form radiates heat like a forge.

Elias shudders as he feels Garrett's cheek, smooth and prickly stubble both, press against the tender flesh of his neck, which tingles electrically at the play of his warm breath as Garrett inhales. His heart is hammering, the hand that was tracing books now clutching the shelf, anchoring him in place lest he turn and claim this creature.

Garrett inhales shakily and his eyes slip shut as he turns his face a fraction forward. He presses a pair of scorching lips to his neck, imprinting heat just below his ear, and his grip tightens. Fingertips caress the sharp ridge of his hipbone as his other hand trails down a ribcage. Heart thrumming inside his skull, for the forbidden nature of the act, the rounded curve of his professor’s perfect ass keening against him, is enough to set his veins alight. His mouth finds purchase with the soft, supple feel of his neck, peppering a slow, aching path of kisses across his flushed skin.

Elias emits a low sound, half whimper, half moan, which vibrates along the skin beneath Garrett's lips. He tilts his head to the side, opening his neck to his attentions. The hand that circles the professor's chest can feel the rise and fall of restraint and need, the erratic thump of his heart. One of Elias's hands, the one not gripping the bookshelf, finds Garrett's at his hip, and flattens over it, fingers twining with his, raking the touch down and inward over the crease of his thigh, toward his abdomen. Garrett's pulse quickens further, believing that the images he has harbored of touching him will at last be grounded in reality, but then Elias surprises him.

With a growl, the professor releases his hand and pushes it back, away from him, and takes a lurching step forward, turning so that his back thumps roughly into the bookcase. His hair is falling away from its binding, shadowing his eyes, which are so dark now as he stares with such impossible intensity that Garrett can barely see the amber.

Indeed Garrett, now thrust back into their vexing circumstance, instinctively takes a step backwards and his jaw falls open.

_“Shit,_ ” he breathes, pupils dilated and cheeks still visibly flushed with desire, “I’m… I’m so sorry.”

Elias continues to pierce him with his gaze, which is full of want, his chest heaving until he brings it under control with a deep breath. He sees Garrett visibly crumbling with trepidation, and he realizes in this moment he must either make the decision that Elissa has cautioned him to, or abandon it. But as his eyes rake over the young man now achingly submissive before him, the imprint of his lips searing upon his flesh still, he finds he cannot close this door.

The professor takes a slow step forward, the same space through which he had just fled to quell the supremacy of his reptilian brain, and stands close to him again, their chests almost touching. He wishes only to wipe away the expression on Garrett's face, of having violated something, and so he stretches a hand up to touch his burning cheek. Blue eyes widen at the gesture, which is tender, followed by an unintended caress of his lips by Elias's thumb.

Elias finds himself tilting his chin up, wanting to taste him, to give up restraint, and indeed Garrett eagerly moves his lips to meet him.

That is when reason finally takes hold. Logic. A code of ethics that he simply cannot breach.

Instead of kissing him, Elias moves the hand that is cradling his jaw, and covers Garrett's lips with his fingers.

A barrier.

"Not while you're my student, Garrett," he whispers. "After."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Art](http://winebearcat.tumblr.com/post/133962042465/ilyahna1980-queen-schadenfreude-just-left-this) of Elias & Garrett by queen-schadenfreude.
> 
> [Art](http://winebearcat.tumblr.com/post/133728052810/saterema-winebearcat-i-cleaned-up-that-trash) of Elissa by saterema.


	7. Chapter 7

Spring Break, 2006

It has been a luxurious, lazy two days, the first of spring break, with the Hawke clan lulled into sun-drenched, heated lethargy upon the waters of the British Virgin Islands. Grueling hours of studying, interminable afternoons of back to back classes and stale lectures are relegated to the recesses of Garrett’s mind. The frigid, drab gray of winter is banished across endless miles of deep blue sea for the remainder of the week.

Garrett strolls along a boardwalk, the tiny island town of Great Harbor to his right, and the sea to his left. The sparkling teal water is speckled with the white spines of sailboat masts, bleached sails flying before the wind farther out to sea, and for a moment Garrett longs to follow suit.

But he has other things on his mind.

He is already burnished a healthy bronze, a complexion naturally coaxed forth by sunlight, unlike his siblings who walk beside him. Carver hovers an arm’s length and a few steps behind, sullenly dragging his feet and wearing a Sox cap backward, sunglasses perched on a freckled nose with his mouth curled in a perpetual grimace. He is the vision of his elder brother yet bears the pallid complexion of their mother, already exhibiting the flush of sunburn splashed across broad shoulders and high cheekbones. Yet he lumbers behind, an inch shy of Garrett despite his age and therefore a frequently sought after prospect for football scholarships. Bethany walks at Garrett’s right, her shoulder almost brushing his arm with her proximity. Her face is obscured by a wealth of dark brown hair spilling to her shoulders, a wide brimmed sun hat, and a pair of oversized black sunglasses. Yet her equally creamy complexion has deepened marginally in color, having employed the prudence of SPF 80 at least thrice this morning unlike her discomforted, grumbling twin. Conversely, she is consumed by the delicate choreography of walking and cheerfully eating ice cream, and thus Garrett is finally alone with his thoughts for a moment.

While in England, the proximity of his pale professor, and the weekly schedule that allowed Garrett to see him with consistency, had tempered the consciousness of his feelings. It is being removed, with no possibility of hearing his voice or seeing the smile in his feline eyes, that has driven Garrett to sleepless nights. To contemplating the word _"after,_ " and all its possible meanings. To wondering what the lines of his body would feel like beneath his hands, wishing to know the burn of his lips on every inch of him. He replayed the moment in Elias's office over and over again, tossing and turning, unable to get the taste of his skin out of his mind, or his intoxicating smell. It was fine cologne, a hint of tobacco, undercurrents of coffee, clean, like clothing freshly laundered. He would remember it, and remember the feel of his firm, perfect ass pressed into his hips. Then he would wrap his hand around himself and indulge the fantasy that the professor had not stopped him, and come with his name as a silent cry on his lips in the sticky, tropical heat.  

“What are we even doing, Garrett? You planning to just wander the entire island?” Carver growls, piercing his thoughts. “I’m bored.”

“Only you would have a soiled diaper in literal paradise,” Garrett rolls his eyes and continues to set his gaze forward.

Carver throws a meaty fist out, connecting with Garrett’s bicep.

Garrett hisses slightly and scowls, turning to deliver his own swift form of petty sibling vengeance. Yet Beth quickly loops her arm around his and tugs him forward with her button nose scrunched in distaste.

“Stop it. Do that at home. I’m trying to enjoy myself here,” she chides and resumes lapping at her melting cone of ice cream.

Carver makes a half-hearted swipe at his twin’s ice cream, to dislodge it from her hands, but she dances forward a few steps, pulling Garrett with her.

“What are we even looking for? I want to go back to the yacht,” Carver moans, resuming his plodding gait.

 _“I want to go back to the yacht,_ ” Garrett mimics in a nasally voice, rolling his eyes. “We’re going into town, shit lord. I have something to do for school,” he adds wryly, dodging yet another thump from an enlarged, callused hand.

His laughter is punctuated by Beth’s huffy sigh and she pulls him along, increasing the distance between them and the youngest Hawke sibling (though only by two minutes and forty-three seconds, he’ll often assert).

Within moments, the single dirt road sloping its way through a smattering of brightly colored shops leads them to the sleepy heart of the island town. Roofs sag at the behest of age and climatological forces, though the mid-March season decrees that storm windows hang open as Caribbean sunlight pools generously into each building. Yet to undergo the process of socioeconomic gentrification that has infected their localized New England island destinations, the sluggish and inert pace of Great Harbor has attracted the Hawke family to its secluded location for several years now.

“I prefer Nantucket,” Carver sighs, scratching at his irritating sunburn, and Garrett nearly chokes on his laughter.

They stop before the Internet café, a rustic building sandwiched between a half-century old seafood restaurant and an ice cream parlor. As they enter the shop a rusty bell jangles loudly, announcing their entrance. As a result, Garrett and Beth flash matching grins at the jaded native behind the counter and Carver lumbers in behind them without a word. The teenager on staff merely blinks at them, immune to the charm dripping from their features, and he dips his head back down toward his phone. The café stands empty, for the rich warmth of a tropical afternoon has directed any and all potential patrons toward the turquoise shore lapping at the strip of white sand curling around the inner harbor.

Thus Garrett moves toward the back wall lined with questionably functioning desktop computers. He scrapes the chair out and flops down into it, jabbing the power button on the monitor screen of the clunky contraption that had no doubt been manufactured at the turn of the twenty-first century. Thus he chews the inside of his cheek in anticipation, silently fretting over the possibility that the thing could implode before he is able to bleed his thoughts out into the ineloquence of an email that will no doubt thinly veil his intentions.

Intentions that speak to his desire to do anything – say anything – just to get closer to the professor.

Beth senses his anxious comportment and seats herself beside him. Tucking an elbow to rest on his shoulder, the two watch as the monitor begrudgingly flickers and wheezes to life.

“Do you have something due?” she inquires, observing as he leans forward to hastily navigate the guest login prompt.

“Yeah, I have to email my professor,” he mutters unthinkingly and clacks away at the ancient keyboard.

Carver sits on his other side, blinking slowly at the screen with an expression that rivals the vacuous disinterest of the shop attendant’s.

Once Garrett opens the outdated version of Internet Explorer, he starts to jiggle his knee impatiently at the maddening pace of the connection. He sighs in exasperation at the situation: plagued by longing for a man entirely inaccessible to him given their current circumstances. Notwithstanding the violation of social propriety, which they seem to be blindly edging towards regardless, physical distance and differing time zones also now separate them. For despite having left the United Kingdom a mere forty-eight hours ago to embark upon break, Garrett can scarcely focus on anything other than Elias Anders’ burning skin beneath his lips.    

He quickly types into the browser, pulling up the site in which to access his personal email account. Once logged in, he clicks a new draft and quickly raps elias.anders@yahoo.com into the banner, swallowing down a silent prayer that his siblings will not notice the personal nature of the handle.

“Don’t you use an academic handle?” Beth punctuates his thoughts astutely, “I thought you had to for college.”

“Oxford’s email interface is a little bulky,” he quickly lies through his teeth, shoulders tensing, “it’s not uncommon for some of the professors to prefer using their personal emails.”

“Oh,” she simply issues in response before crunching loudly on her dwindling cone of ice cream.

“Since when do you do school shit on vacation, slacker?” Carver teases, also bending over to stare at the screen, waiting for words to appear.

Garrett laughs and on impulse uses the computer’s active webcam to snap a picture of the three of them.

“What was that for?” Beth whines as Garrett goes to the desktop and opens the file.

He double clicks and enlarges the grainy photo to reveal him front and center laughing candidly, Beth draped across his shoulder with her mouth parted around the last section of the sugar cone while Carver boasts a side-eyed glance of amusement at his siblings.

“Oh god,” she laments and swats at his hand. “No. Have you gone mad? Delete this. Why are you sending this to a _professor?_ ”

“It’s fine,” Garrett grins and adds the attachment to the email, prompting his siblings to drone complaints into each ear.

They fall deaf however as his pulse begins to hammer inside his skull, graduating to a roar as his fingers poise upon the keyboard. He blinks once, twice, inhaling deeply and considering, if only for a moment, that perhaps he _has_ gone a little mad.  

 

-ooo-

 

Elias sits on the elegant, wrap-around porch, ensconced upon a thickly padded sectional. There is a cool breeze from the river vista, the last vestiges of winter not quite scoured away. It is evening, and from within the Cousland mansion, piano music drifts out onto the law through open windows. It smells of freshly cut grass and early flowers.

He recalls many a weekend here, and even long summers during school. Orphaned at the age of twelve, Elias had known nothing like family until he met Elissa the first semester of undergraduate school. She had brought him home with her for spring break years ago, just as she had this week, and her parents had all but adopted him.

Once they accepted he was not her boyfriend. Nor ever would be.

Eleanor Cousland is chatting amicably in the doorway with one of their guests, a politician whose name Elias has not caught yet, and he hears her politely excuse herself and then her heels are clicking on the well-worn wood as she crosses to him. He watches her approach with a smile. She is the picture of Elissa as a refined older woman: blonde hair coiled in a bun at the nape of her neck, green eyes sparking in the rafter lights like the emeralds at her earlobes.

She smoothes her dress as she sits down beside him, and simultaneously places a martini in his hand as she pecks his cheek. 

"It's been too long, Elias!" she says. "You work too hard."

He takes a sip of his beverage and his eyes twinkle over the rim of the glass. "Oh, you know. Systems to change one mind at a time," he jests.

"I think you're working harder on one mind in particular," another voice says, an echo of her mother’s, and Elias shoots a dark glance at Elissa, who has followed her mother outside.

His friend grins widely at him, rouged lips moving to the rim of her glass to hide her smirk.

"Mind your tongue, Elly May," Elias growls, delivering a long despised nickname for his best friend that draws an unfavorable comparison to a certain blonde counterpart from re-runs of a seventies’ American television show.

Elissa scowls at him immediately and shoots a heeled foot out to connect with his shin.

At the same moment, he feels Eleanor’s hand pat his thigh.

"Have you met someone darling?" she asks, too sharp for Elias's good.

He clears his throat, glaring at Elissa, and shakes his head. "Your daughter exaggerates. One of my students just seems to have a... small thing. It's nothing," he lies.

Eleanor squeezes his knee as she chuckles, then pinches his cheek in a motherly gesture she knows makes him blush. “Oh that’s not so uncommon. Especially when the teacher is such a handsome, brilliant thing.”

“Okay,” Elias says, half-heartedly batting her away. “Both of you, stop.” He feels… eighteen. This only deepens the color in his cheeks.

Luckily for him, Eleanor doesn’t seem to connect that reaction with anything more, and changes the subject to his current work, which he is more than happy to discuss.

They spend some time catching up, Eleanor tucked beside him on the sectional, while Elissa is perched upon the arm of the couch, occasionally interjecting. Elias is introduced to several people who drift past from the Couslands’ cocktail party, to whom he has to explain more than once the principle of social justice. Many of the Couslands’ older friends are also old money, though he has been seeing younger faces at these get togethers of late. This is attributed to Elissa, who in her own way is as determined to see change in their country as he.

At last, three martinis later and more speaking on the subject of himself than he cares for, Elias glances at his watch and remembers the conversation in his office the day Garrett left for the British Virgin Islands. The boy's face was actually pale beneath that mop of black hair, blue eyes apprehensive, stammering about not meeting for his paper review for a week and getting behind. Elias, playing deliberately obtuse, suggested he just send an email if he planned on working over spring break and had questions. Garrett had bitten his lip against a wide smile, saying, _but what if I want to email you about something else?_ It was a loaded suggestion, a deliberate toe across the line Elias had drawn, but so was letting his student kiss him without immediately putting a stop to it.

And to be honest, whatever the "something else," might be, it had kept Elias up at night since they'd parted ways, wondering. Both aching for something substantial, though he had no right to expect it, and fearing what it might be. What it meant that he even wanted it, for such was not about physical attraction or lust, but a desire to transcend that. To not be lonely.

Far more dangerous, for him.

But dangerous or not, Elias had given him his personal email, a thing he had never done for a student in all his numerous years of teaching. And he’d checked it twenty times in two days.

Like a teenage boy.

“Elissa,” he says, interrupting his own thoughts. Eleanor has moved away to socialize with her guests and his surrogate sister has planted herself at his side, matching him drink for drink.

“Hmm?” She is gazing across the porch where a young man with cropped reddish hair and broad shoulders is chatting with her father. _Alistair something_ , he couldn’t remember.

“I need to check my email.”

She turns to glance at him now, ripped from her muted observation with a furrowed brow.

“Are you joking?” she hocks in disbelief, “right now? Why on earth?”

Elias follows her eyes as they return to the obviously English gentleman she had been watching, then he nudges her with his elbow.

“Come on. You’re wasting your time trying to replace Mr. Arainai with a British boy. You know you only like Italians. Find me a computer.”

“Oh fuck off,” she rolls her eyes and sips hard from her glass. “And what, pray tell, is so urgent about checking your bloody email at this hour?”

“My students might… ahem… need me. I have to be available. I’m dedicated.” He drains his third martini. “And slightly drunk.”

She pinches the bridge of her shapely nose and closes her eyes with a huff.

“You mean… a student in particular?” she grates, long lashes now fluttering open again. “Elias, I am asking you not to engage in this. No - ” she suddenly pauses to also deplete her drink before thudding it down beside her.

“I am commanding you not to.”

Elias openly laughs. “You know that doesn’t work on me.” He stands up, and pulls her to her feet by a hand. “Denying me something only makes me want it more,” he adds, and winks at her.

She blinks at him for a moment, peering at him with impatience that quickly dissolves beneath his veteran charm. They are both far too matured to engage in such trite nonsense, having long ago shed the irreverence and rebellion of their more youthful days, she wants to say, though she glances at the sliding glass door. After a moment, she turns her head back to greet him with a raised brow, though clemency bubbles upon her features in congruence with the amount of gin in her system.  

“You’re going straight to hell, Anders,” she mutters before stepping away from him and wrenching the door open.

“Fine. We’ll use my laptop.”

Elias follows her dutifully through the house, where they both manage to procure two additional beverages they don't need, and she leads him up the stairs to her bedroom. Her laptop lies closed on the desk of her old childhood room, a room in which the two of them have shared laughter, tears over lost loves, watched too many movies, studied into the small hours of the night, and where Elissa had nursed him through the dark spells of his younger years.

Elissa flips the laptop open, peering at the screen as she punches in her password with one finger, holding her drink with the other hand. Then she offers Elias an undisguised glower of disapproval and waves her hand at it.

"Descend upon thy journey, Dante," she sighs.

Elias gives her a half-lidded smile as he sits down. “Thank you Virgil.”

He navigates his way into his Yahoo account, already annoyingly flecked with ads, and he cannot deny the cascading thrill that fills his belly when he sees one email waiting for him in bold print. He takes a long sip of his drink as a pure flush crawls across his skin, for he was certainly not expecting this reaction. Not to a simple email. Unconsciously, his hand moves to caress the skin of his neck where he swears he can still feel the scorch of Garrett's lips, but he catches himself before drifting too far into memory, for Elissa is watching him with large green eyes alight with amusement and curiosity.

Elias notices there are attachments to this email, though he is suddenly loathe to click them first, both because he wishes it to be something other than a copy of Garrett's latest work on his paper, and because he fears it might be something more enticing.

 _God_ , he thinks, clicking the email to bring it up, _I AM going to hell._

He brings up the body of the email, and begins to read.

It is initially academic in nature, beginning with an acerbic deconstruction of Frederick Hammond’s latest novel on symbolic interactionism. Not necessarily a criticism of the sociological school of thought, but more so a critique of Hammond’s ethnomethodology, rounding out succinctly with the phrase: _Hammond’s efficacy employs an element of bullshit that’s nearly enviable._ It further elucidates that Garrett had indeed read the entirety of the work during his flight and on his first night upon a Caribbean seashore, before he flung it into the sea spitefully, accepting without repent that he will eventually have to pay the Oxford library fine that will inevitably show up in his student account.

The content of the email deviates at this point, briefly explicating upon his family and their tradition of vacationing in such a luxurious locale. It attempts to remain objective: simply his observations of socioeconomic privilege or lack thereof, offering anecdotal evidence of economic redevelopment tucked away inside a Caribbean archipelago. Yet despite the attempt at objectivity, it offers a single crackle of reflection with: _Maybe I ought to be doing something more worthwhile with a break such as this._

Finally, the end of it sprawls across in a series of sentences thinly veiled with Garrett Hawke’s grade of humor, though very blatantly stating two very bold claims. _The first one being that perhaps England isn’t so drab after all and, by extension, that the coffee outside of Oxford is questionable._ The second and final one before he simply signs off with _Garrett,_ is that he in fact, misses it.

(With a rough addendum at the bottom wishing Marx and Lincoln well).

Elias realizes that he is smiling through the duration of perusing the email: especially the part where Hammond’s book sails out to sea where it belongs. He is mildly surprised to find his student reading such dense drabble on vacation, and obviously taking his time to expound on his thoughts about the text and other astute observations. Then he realizes that he should not be surprised, and that is precisely why he likes Garrett Hawke more than he should. Or, at least, one of several reasons.

He finally clicks on the attachments. The first is a picture of what appears to be Garrett in an internet cafe, with two creatures that must be his siblings. Elissa coos over the photo, remarking on how young they all look, which makes Elias feel a bit embarrassed, but then he clicks on the second picture, and embarrassment is the last thing he feels.

It is a photo of Garrett, taken by someone else on the beach, kneeling in the white sand, with a sailboat in the background. He is clad in nothing but low-slung shorts, skin golden bronze, black hair trailing softly across his chest and disappearing well below his navel. It is set in a taut belly, the musculature of which is perfectly chiseled. Elias instantly recalls the way that body felt, hard against his, and yet so invitingly pliable. Garrett's face is lit with a radiant grin that sparks in his pale eyes, and there is color in his cheeks from the sun. White teeth are perfect and straight in a smattering of dark stubble, the beginnings of a beard, perhaps, offering a brightness to his expression that seems to reflect some inner glow.

It is easily the most beautiful thing he has ever seen, and he knows he is staring, martini glass poised somewhere beyond his parted lips. He feels his pulse in his neck, behind his eyes, and realizes he has forgotten to breathe.

“Oh… my… fu –“ Elissa groans, punctuating the silence with a hitched breath, and she manically begins to blink.

As her eyes flick across the screen, she stands, the inertia of her seated position now immediately filling her legs with the leaded weight of a gin and vermouth amalgamation. Consequently, her lips fall open and she uninhibitedly begins to babble out inebriated protest.

“No. No, no, no, no. Elias, oh my god! No! We have to burn my computer. I must be breaking some sort of law? Right? I can’t go to prison,” she begins to pace in a circle, her eyes darting between the screen and a flushed, paralyzed Elias before her. “My IP address –“ she attempts though pauses to bury her face into her palms. “ _Fuck_ he’s beautiful. This is horrendous. This is incredible.”

“Relaaaaax,” Elias murmurs after a moment, hiding in his martini long enough to recover his composure, but still staring. “He’s over… okay, he’s eighteen.”

He glances slowly over at Elissa. “Do you see my dilemma? _And_ he’s brilliant? Could you just kill me now? Please?”

She peeks up from her fingers, cheeks slightly flushed.

“I’m in no place to lecture you over propriety and giving into temptation, Elias. I honestly have no words right now. They’re insufficient,” she sighs with visceral acquiescence.

Elias sighs, turning back to the picture, and clicks it closed reluctantly. He has a firmly convincing feeling he will be looking at it again, later. He clicks reply, knowing that after four martinis it might not be the best time, but he does not care.

He types several things, ignoring Elissa as she peers over his shoulder, knowing he cannot get rid of her. He erases them all, and finally just leads with:

“I lament the coffee too, lately. It does seem to be missing something.”

And perhaps he’s mad for admitting it.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We always appreciate kudos, comments and acknowledgement on Tumblr. Please remember this is a coauthored fiction, and if you would like to tag us with art or comments publicly, please tag us both so we can both see it! Much love!


	8. Chapter 8

One week ago, Garrett Hawke left London Heathrow as a sleep deprived, mentally drained, and pale young man just having escaped the incomparable Hell known as midterm examinations at the University of Oxford. Pale is a relative term, however, as he now bears a healthy bronze glow restored by copious hours of sleep, the Caribbean sun, and the rewarding email from Oxford’s registrar informing him of his impeccable marks.

Yet no amount of dark rum, turquoise water, or golden sunlight have been able to placate the restlessness picking at the back of his mind for seven days.

Further, he is suddenly hyper aware of his currently shoddy appearance, having endured a near eight-hour journey across the Atlantic Ocean and a subsequent Sunday night flat party involving Officer Rutherford, two confiscated kegs, and four hours of missing time at the behest of an endless waterfall of vodka.

It renders him violently hungover as he now stands outside Professor Anders’ office, already having politely declined offers of water, an ice pack, and an Advil from Miss Merrill. Thus Garrett raps his knuckle on the door, pausing for a moment until he is summoned with the fluidity of a voice nearly imprinted into memory. He swallows thickly, eyes slipping shut as he presses down on the handle and spills himself forward. Met with the prim, tailored package of the man that has relentlessly occupied his thoughts for the past week, he licks his bottom lip and flicks his gaze across his frame. He wears no blazer today, instead a neatly ironed dress shirt with the top button undone. His eyes admittedly linger upon the exposed fraction of skin for a moment too long, though he attempts to paste a crooked grin upon his features in greeting.

It earns him a mildly surprised expression, as Garrett conversely bears the mark of hungover chaos: wild, unkempt curls smothered by his cherished Sox cap, which he now takes off out of habit, and bleary, reddened eyes that crease with strain.

“Hello Garrett,” Elias receives him with a laugh that ricochets between his ears, pinging relentlessly inside his skull, and concluding somewhere inside the pit of his stomach that threatens to erupt in volatile protest.

“Hi Elias,” Garrett wheezes in response and slumps down into the chair, placing warm fingers over his face.

He moans softly, burying himself deeper into the clammy pseudo-bliss of his palm and tucking his knees to his chest in order to shield himself away from wicked sunlight and beautiful, residual laughter. Whitened knuckles grip tightly onto the arm of the chair for fear that his spinning world will fling him right off and send him flying into the most tortuous abyss of his hangover. He has surely convinced himself, in the twenty-two minutes he has been awake, that he he will land head first, skull cracking in half and splitting down the middle only for a clank of bones to crumble in some pitiful denouement of his most gruesome and untimely demise.

“It’s… um… really warm in here, isn’t it?” he breathes raggedly and begins to unzip his coat, ripping it off and allowing it to slink to the floor.

Elias takes in the bedraggled form before him, fingers arrested in typing notes. Garrett is twenty minutes late to his appointment, and the educator in him rails at his conscience that it his responsibility to berate him for his lack of punctuality. His irresponsibility. He finds as he looks at the creature draped traumatically in the chair across from him several things, however. First, he realizes the words which threaten to drip from his tongue are too personal in nature: _you're going to make yourself sick, Garrett. You should take better care of yourself. Did you even sleep last night?_

And then he is thinking of how things have evolved to this point, of how he has spent the last week exchanging emails with his student that became, over such a short time, progressively more personal. He thinks of sitting in bed at night, laptop over his blankets, telling Garrett things about himself at this age that eradicate any credibility on his part were he to chastise him now.

Then there is the photo. The one that reflects a more vibrant, and far less clothed, visage of this same young man, and he realizes while staring at him in protracted silence that he cannot unsee it. Nor can he forget the way his imagination has so recently expounded on that digital image.

Elias Anders, Oxford professor, rubs a blush out of his nose, thankful that Garrett's eyes are squeezed shut. He has been blessed by the boy's shyness thus far, perhaps, that Garrett has not asked just exactly what Elias thought of that photo.

Saving the document on his computer, he closes it and leans back in his chair.

"Welcome back?" he poses it as a question, for Garrett seems less than enthusiastic about his return to the rigors of academia.

“Thank you,” Garrett attempts to smile, though it is slapdash in execution rather than the charming display he’d endeavored for.

He peers at him openly now, turning his head from his fingers and wearing a slightly pained expression. It is not the dehydration or thick stab of agony thrumming inside his head, but the uninhibited manifestation of desire bleeding from his features. He is in too much of a compromised position to mask his need, and it is one that has burgeoned for months on end, only further amplified this past week by late night email exchanges in lieu of coffee dates.

Elias returns the look, and though his features are more composed with the dignity of age and a constitution up to the challenge, he still feels as though he is staring into a mirror. From the other side of his desk, in his office, it makes him feel naked.

Clearing his throat, he rises, circumventing the desk. "Did you even remember your paper?" he quips, though without genuine chagrin.

He is moving toward the door, feeling Garrett's eyes on him. His intention is to shut it, if only to stave off the intense feeling of culpability he feels for having descended into some miasma of improper, taboo sensations that feel as though they must be plastered to his sleeve for the world to see.

Garrett scarcely hears the question, only instinctively righting himself on his feet and grasping his arm without thought.

"Elias,” he mumbles out, gazing at him with entreat.

Garrett’s professor stares at him with round eyes, which at first are a mixture of commiseration and surprise, but then his brows flash down and he twists his arm out of Garrett’s grasp.

“Have some self control, Garrett,” he hisses, and then is moving across the room once more, where he abruptly shuts the door.

Elias stands facing it for a moment, fingers still gripping the handle, a sigh heaving through his shoulders, and then he turns, leaning against it and regarding Garrett with disapproval in his stare.

“What are you doing?” he implores, though he does not sound angry. Only frustrated. “My door was standing open, for anyone to see that.”

“I’m sorry,” he chokes out and walks toward him, stopping a foot short with a wrecked, imploring expression. He lifts his hand tentatively and loosely grips the lapel of his dress shirt. Bright eyes glimmering, brow drawn up in desperation, and his lips part with a string of saliva.

“I really don’t have any more self control at this point,” he murmurs in a near whisper.

“You don’t have a choice, Garrett. This is my job on the line here.”

“Please,” he croaks softly, stepping closer and blinking at him with a beseeching cerulean gaze. “Elias, _please_.”

Elias gives him a forlorn look, his brow furrowed beneath its dusting of pale freckles. His chest rises against the feel of Garrett’s hand clutching the lapel of his shirt, the thumb that is brushing exposed skin below his throat.

“Please _what?_ ” he manages in a cracked voice, his instinct to back away overcome by some force of gravity that locks him in place.

Garrett shuts his eyes and wills his vision to stop bisecting with a heavy exhalation. He is consumed by weakness in this moment, both physical and mental, for the shattered fragments of his willpower speak as a testament to the erraticism of his breathing. He trails the thumb along his smooth skin, perhaps stretched a tinge too thin across his shoulders, as if imprinting the feel of him into his eidetic memory. Smoothing it now across the ridge of a collarbone, dipping down to the shallow concave just below his throat, he moves his hand up carefully and quietly thumbs his Adam’s apple. It bobs with the discomfort of a thick swallow, one that Garrett immediately mirrors as their noses nearly brush. He has inadvertently inched closer to the professor, lips mere inches from finally claiming his, and he issues a small, scarcely audible whimper.

“Please,” he repeats as a wispy plea.

The pad of Garrett's thumb seems to trail electricity along Elias's skin, so tender across his collarbone in a way he never imagined it. Ticklish against his throat. He swallows, but he cannot breathe. His back is mere inches from the door, though he is suddenly aware of nothing but Garrett Hawke. Even though they are separated by such minute height, the other man seems to loom over him, gazing down with barely lidded eyes that speak of having been pushed too far by a need denied. His nose brushes Elias's, and the texture of his skin radiates across his consciousness, filed away in the places he has buried images and ideas that feed the apparition of fantasy he has crafted upon many late nights, alone in his bed. Texture, and the warmth of his breath, stirring across his chin with an air of coffee and peppermint.

Something about the way his hand is almost around his throat, gently circling it so the back of his fingers tickle the hair at the nape of his neck, is magnetizing, and he finds himself indulging in the feel of his nose against his. He drinks in his scent, which is also rife with animal desire; it is the same intense flood of pheromones that begs to drown out his own reason, to silence the voice in his head that tells him to stop.

And so he finds himself closing those few, infinitesimal inches, not meaning to kiss him, but to add the feel of his lips to his mental construct of Garrett Hawke. They are dry, because he is dehydrated. Not soft. But warm. Elias's eyes drift nearly closed, but his vision has blurred already, swimming and creating a mirage of this moment.

Garrett’s breath hitches as the professor scarcely brushes his lips against his. Though he suddenly groans, a guttural sound emanating deep in his throat, and he attempts to kiss him with the impetus of every night he has lain awake aching for this man.

There is sudden pressure against his lips, and Elias reacts with instinct bred of caution, of lectures from Elissa, of mental self-flagellation for this thing that he should never have allowed the breath of life. He pulls away, hand going to Garrett’s arm, the one now around his waist. He realizes at that moment how entangled he has become, how on the brink of powerlessness. He fixes Garrett with his cat eyes, flashing in the glistening morning sunlight that emanates from the window over the other man’s shoulder. His lips part to protest, but no words form. Only a tongue, darting out to moisten them.

Garrett stares at him with a destitute expression, wrought with dejection and primitive need, and he considers drawing back altogether. Though he cannot move, instead captivated by flecks of gold encircling his amber eyes. Illuminated by the radiance of the sun, they possess a hue of warm honey as Garrett beholds them with visceral reverence. It is thus that he slips his fingers into his hair carefully, his thumb now brushing beneath the nape of his neck in a gentle caress. He closes his eyes and leans in, hoping - _praying_ \- for absolution as he meets Elias’ lips in a soft, cautious kiss.

Elias is frozen, his whole form stiff with the compulsion for flight, for acknowledging that his secretary is just beyond the door, that his career is just a thin wooden structure away from being ruined. His fingernails close on Garrett's arm, his breath hitching in his belly, words forming and then drowning, and then he slips under the surface himself. Perhaps it is the sweet, gentle nature of the kiss, clearly exploring his willingness, asking him silent permission. Perhaps it is nearly a year of attraction, months of desire, but he cannot resist him.

There is some small sound that escapes his throat even as his lips are pressed against Garrett's, and then he feels his whole body relax in his grip. The fingers on Garrett’s arm begin to slide up, caressing the flesh, grazing over the soft green t-shirt, finding his neck and then the tousled mess of his hair. Courser than he imagined. Garrett's skin burns, like some being lit with inner fire. Elias sucks in a breath around the kiss, for he has been holding onto it, and then he parts his lips for him.

Garrett groans quietly and kisses him with a knitted, desperate brow. Elias’ lips are softer than he’d imagined, tasting of fine coffee and plush with warmth. As they part for him, for Garrett’s raw neediness that exponentially mounts with urgency, the student slips his tongue inside his mouth and walks him backwards against the door. His shoulder blades thud softly, the back of his head following, and Garrett pins his chest against his. He deepens the kiss, opening his jaw slightly to run his tongue along the roof of his silken mouth, and hitches his breath with a small moan at how incredible Elias Anders tastes.

A small part of Elias's mind registers the thump of his back against the door, wondering if Merrill heard it and will come to investigate, but he is rapidly consumed. Garrett's tongue is desperately hot, and Elias's hand, the one not tangled in his hair holding his lips to him, slips down his side, to his hip. His shirt is untucked, allowing easy access to the form beneath, and Elias's fingers explore the planes pressed against him. The photograph etched in his mind comes to life beneath his touch, and his blood roaring in his ears drowns out all sound but the wet caress of tongue and lips and

_BAM BAM BAM._

The sound reverberates through his back and head and both he and Garrett freeze, for it is coming from the door. His mind rushes to order itself, disentangling himself quickly from Garrett, one hand on his chest pushing him back with sorrowful lack of ceremony.

Miss Merrill has a timid knock, a sound that never disrupts his academic repose. This is not her. He turns to the door, pressing his quivering fingers over lips that feel swollen, and he utters a curse under his breath. He takes a few steps away, and on impulse snatches a book from the nearby shelf, feeling Garrett shift with his movements until they are separated by steps.

He means to speak, but his throat is constricted, full of Garrett's kiss, and so he merely reaches out and tugs the door open. He manages not even to blanch when he comes face to face with Meredith Stannard.

Merrill is behind her, looking more pale than usual, wringing her hands, and then tucking one against her lips when she glances behind Elias at Garrett's hovering form.

Stannard takes them in: Elias with a book clutched like a shield to his chest, his hair falling just a bit loose from its queue. His young student hovering at his shoulder, with god knew what look on his face. Surprisingly, she smiles, all teeth.

"Well isn't this a tranquil little picture, Anders."

Garrett glances at her, blinking hard to right his vision, and his lips curl with his quintessential grin despite the alarming circumstance. Though he has always excelled under pressure, even despite the belated headache that now flares between his eyes after having quelled it with an intoxicating, forbidden kiss.

“Dean Stannard,” he manages with a charming nod.

She glances at him with an undisguised air of disapproval, her pert nose just a shade higher in the air than need be, thus that she can then glance down it (from her shorter height, a honed skill no doubt) at Elias.

“Disciplinary committee tomorrow morning. Unscheduled, but spring break weekend was apparently…” she shifts her eyes to Garrett. “...more undisciplined than normal.”

“Don’t you have something better to do with your time, Meredith?” Elias bites off, belatedly realizing this is a boundary best not overstepped.

She raises two well-manicured eyebrows at him. “Why Anders. I’ve always counted on you to have a sense of justice at the forefront of your mind for our prestigious community.”

Elias grinds his teeth together. “You and I have a different definition of justice.”

Meredith Stannard regards him with icy blue eyes for a moment which lazily, pointedly shift over his shoulder to Garrett, and then back. She adds, softly:

“Do we?” Then she smiles again. “See you tomorrow, Anders. Don’t be late.” Her eyes flick back to Garrett. and she smirks. “Or you, Hawke.”

“Dean Stannard, you wound me,” Garrett touches his fingers to his heart with a twisted pout etched across his features.

The dean’s lips curl in a half-sneer at Garrett, completely uncharmed. ‘You have no right on this campus, little boy,” she says. “You’re lucky you have benefactors.” She does not specify whom, or what, his benefactors are, but glances again at Elias.

“Eight A.M. On time.” Then she turns and shoulders past Miss Merrill without another word.

Garrett, too drained and over-stimulated at this point, fails to conjure a retort and his mildly bewildered gaze falls upon the poor secretary. She glances at him for a moment with a matched expression, eyes like emerald saucers, before swiveling her head back toward Elias.

“I’m so sorry, Dr. A,” she begins to stammer out in her pitched voice, “you know how she is. She wouldn’t listen.”

“Hush, darling,” he utters, leaning out to kiss her cheek as he pats her shoulder. “Give us a minute if you could? Then we have a date for tea, don’t we?” He smiles broadly at her, genuinely fondness in his expression.

Merrill nods, biting her bottom lip, but smiling at Elias. “I’ll use all the powers at my command to see there are no more...interruptions,” she offers and winks, returning to her desk as Elias shuts the door and rounds on Garrett.

“Do you see what I mean?” he hisses. “Crows lurking in the windows. Watching. I’ve spent so many years and overcome so much shit to get here. You can’t respect the word “wait?” His tone wavers with anger, though whether it deserves to be directed at Garrett, or himself, is in question.

Garrett stares at him, blinking hard as his mouth falls open slightly. A flush has crept across his nose and he offers a mien of candid repent.

“Elias, I’m sorry,” he murmurs genuinely.

Elias’s amber eyes bore into his, squinting in the sunlight, and then he turns away long enough to shove the random book he’d grabbed back onto the bookshelf.

“I should go,” Garrett flusters out and stumbles toward the chair where he has left his coat piled on the ground.

He picks it up, shrugging it on and zipping it to the neck despite the heat that now consumes his cheeks. Making it to the door he casts a disconsolate, culpable glance at his professor and pauses before reaching for the handle.

“This never happened. I promise I’ll drop it. I truly am sorry,” he mumbles in a thin voice.

Garrett has opened the door a fraction of an inch, his head bowed over the handle, and then Elias finds himself shifting so that his body is just behind Garrett’s, and he reaches around him and shoves the door closed. It clicks over-audibly, but at the moment he does not care.

One hand lifts to touch his hip, traces his side, and he leans into him, pressing his chest against his back.

Garrett freezes before a violent shiver ripples down his spine and he instinctively finds himself pressing back against the professor.

Elias curls his arm around Garrett’s waist, and molds himself to the lithe body before him. He presses his cheek to his shoulder, absorbing the warmth of his skin through the jacket, then tilts his head up and touches his lips to Garrett’s neck.

“It did happen,” he whispers.

Then Elias trails warm lips up Garrett’s neck to his ear, where he finds his earlobe and gently takes it in his mouth, moistening it with his tongue, tracing it, memorizing it.

“It will happen again,” he promises lowly.

Garrett is trembling hard, having gasped as Elias’ hot, slick tongue swept across his ear, and he turns his head to kiss him hastily. He swallows down a groan and bites the professor’s bottom lip, tugging at it with raw craving as his fingertips dig into his forearm. Kissing him for a lick of a moment longer, he suddenly pauses, their swollen lips still joined by a single string of saliva.

“Tonight?” he whispers against his mouth.

Elias peers at him with wide eyes, filled with longing that says tonight is exactly when he wants it, but tempered by years and responsibility and integrity, if a bit shredded at the moment. Heaving a large sigh, brushing Garrett’s lips once more with his own, he uses the hand wrapped around him to open the door, stepping back.

“Only two more months, Garrett.”

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Chapter art](http://winebearcat.tumblr.com/post/130309944790/the-art-goddess-queen-schadenfreude-bestows) by queen-schadenfreude.


	9. Chapter 9

_May, 2006_

It is a Thursday afternoon, and both the week and the semester are drawing to a close. Elias is in as bad a mood as the majority of students, who are scrambling to complete papers, studying for exams, and feeling generally over-burdened and strung out.

Elias scratches a note in red upon a paper before him on his desk, citing _undocumented speculation,_ and wonders what class he has been teaching this entire semester. Perhaps he should have called it _"Wasting Elias Anders' Time 101."_ Thus far, he has given out only one mark above a C-plus. Though he nurtures an almost personal pleasure in the fact that there surely is, if the finished product of months of working with Garrett Hawke is as accomplished as he expects, at least one A.

He takes a break from the paper he is dismantling with a sigh, and glances at his door. It stands open, and he can see the edge of Miss Merrill's desk with her current array of cheerful flowers. It has been a long two months of forcing himself to leave that door open on those rare occasions he has even allowed Garrett in his office alone with him. The near moment with Meredith in that very alcove in the wake of Elias's own casualty of willpower has replayed itself more than once in his mind, inspiring his resolve. Thus he has orchestrated his resolution carefully, though not without a certain amount of regret, meeting only in public venues for the most part.

Today will be the last such meeting between them, the culmination of a semester's worth of guidance and stimulating conversation, and then Garrett will no longer be his student. What that means, Elias has hardly allowed himself to consider beyond furtive cravings confined to the dark of night and his own bed.

He is staring wistfully at the door as the universe seems to hear the echo of his thoughts, and transforms them into the figure of that very student, pausing to speak to Miss Merrill as he always does. Elias almost smiles, but instead raises an eyebrow, for Garrett appears in rare form.

Garrett Hawke appears before him, his mop of hair a disheveled array of chaos as tufts jut up and outwards. Curling just below his ears, pleading to be trimmed as a consequence of neglect, he smears a lock off his forehead with mildly trembling fingers. Entirely aware of his alarming appearance, for two nights of sleep deprivation compounded by excess caffeine consumption and doubling his Adderall dosage, have rendered him mentally gouged and physically quivering. The black Boston Bruins t-shirt clinches his chest snugly, though drips down into the hallmark of every student clawing their way through final examinations: a pair of loose-fitting, stained sweatpants.

Blotched with coffee and ink, he yanks them over his hips and simultaneously pushes his reading glasses up the bridge of his nose. Too exhausted to bother with contacts, he beetles his brow, drawing his vacuous set of eyes across the room as he greets his professor with a tiny, crackled smile.

“Hello, Professor,” he murmurs out, though his throat catches and he clears it audibly.

He’d just been milled and minced inside the maw of his Calculus final not even twenty minutes ago, and he now attempts to redeploy his focus.

_Paper. Gorgeous Scandinavian professor. Paper. Warm lips. Paper. Cold eyes. Paper._

Elias absorbs the uncharacteristic appearance of his student, so soon to be set free from the weighty constraint of clearly outlined ethics. Those that will not allow him to touch him, to smooth that riotous hair into order, to tell him to close the door so he can peel himself away from academia for a moment and just be human. Be enfolded in those arms again and lose himself in the flavor of his tongue, the way he tastes like coffee. The way he seems to smolder at a higher temperature than other creatures, and makes him forget everything but the places they connect when they kiss...

That there has ever only been one kiss shared between them does not diminish the detail with which that moment is etched upon Elias's being, nor his imagination of further, longed for tactility. Not this enforced distance, in which the door remains open to admit the world to the charged atmosphere that seems always to exist when they occupy the same space.

_Focus._

Elias clears his throat.

"You look..." _Beautiful. Tempting._ "...tired."

Garrett, encased in his delirium, nearly whimpers out with a desire to swallow those words down. Pressed against his lips, tasting his tongue, imprinting the flush of his skin beneath padded, roving fingertips.

Instead, he blinks hard and runs those very fingers through his chaotic tresses at an attempt to bridle his feverish need.

“I… yes, I probably do,” he scarcely hears himself speak the words in a hollow, leaden tone.

Elias continues to meet the younger man's simmering blue stare for an overlong moment, until he realizes with delayed consciousness that his red fountain pen has come to rest on the paper he was grading and spread an unsightly and unprofessional pool of color across the page.

"Damn it," he snaps, and then heaves an irritable sigh. He dabs in vain at the ink with a tissue, then gives up.

Finally he is laughing softly at himself for his sorry state, and rubs the tired circles beneath his eyes that almost mirror Garrett's own strain.

"Give me something worth reading, before I resign this job and go back to India."

He flashes Garrett a smile that exudes the fondness he feels. An expression that doubtlessly transcends the boundaries of a teacher with his student.

Garrett obeys magnetically, sauntering across the room with an outstretched hand. He stops at the desk, an inch shy of nudging his thighs upon mahogany wood, and proffers the stapled paper with a sheepish expression.

The harried professor accepts the paper, much of which he has read and re-read over months of ambiguously purposed office hours and visits to what has become _"their"_ coffeehouse. He peruses the first, near memorized pages, the familiar words elegantly ordered and displaying the insight and wit which has melded into the picture of Garrett Hawke that attracts him so. Thus he is able to sail quickly through two thirds of the paper as Garrett sinks into a chair. Elias can feel his eyes on him, and forces himself to ignore their pull and focus on his task as an educator.

It is upon reaching the last several pages that he begins to slog through the phrasing, and realizes that more than one entire source that they have discussed at length and agreed upon is missing from the discussion. By the time he reaches the hastily composed conclusion, which is fraught with unexpected holes and barely grasping to tie the previously polished concepts together, he is frowning.

His cold eyes fix Garrett from above the rims of his glasses.

"I thought we agreed that Wright and Klaus were imperative sources for the discussion of European perspective?"

The tone of irritation in his voice goes amiss by neither the professor nor the student.

Garrett’s lips part as he belatedly realizes he has omitted both sources from the paper and consequently claps his hand over his face.

“Fuck,” he hisses out tactlessly between spread fingers.

The weight of his insomnia barrels down on him then, ripping a prolonged groan from his throat as he sinks into his palm.

“Fuck, Elias,” he laments, shattering their tenuous attempt at professionalism, “I completely forgot to add that argument.”

The dynamic between them shifts murkily for a brief second as Elias again registers the unkempt hair, the scarce attempt at appearing presentable that is a product of obvious exhaustion. He recalls the pressure of a full class load, and for one interminable moment, he wishes to say, _"It's okay, Garrett."_

"It's not okay. Nor is your conclusion." He actually bites his tongue to retain elaboration on that matter in this moment, and simply adds: "Not if you want an A."

Garrett swallows thickly in resignation and his heart begins to palpitate, thundering raucously between his ears. Pounding erratically, as if it were attempting to claw out of his chest and split his entire ribcage open. He realizes, in some blip of self-reflection amidst his palpable discomfort, that it is the amalgamation of caffeine and seventy milligrams of his medication churning inside his long empty stomach. It threatens to expel from his throat in this moment, pinning him to the spot as he exhales unsteadily through his nostrils. He is too physically compromised to supplicate before his professor, instead bowing harder into his palm and shaking his head.

As he now slumps before Professor Elias Anders, he realizes two things: firstly, that it is the final day to submit assignments for the term. Secondly (and undoubtedly), groveling before the man is of no use, for neither sycophancy nor pleading will service him.

Not even a burning, starving kiss.

He resigns to his fate, awash in anxiety and guilt, for he had developed a genuine academic interest in the topic at hand, only to blunder at the finish line. Though blunder isn’t necessarily the correct term, but _disappointment_ \- that which he now shies away from in averting an affixed, amber stare.

“Elias, I can’t. I’m sorry. Just do with it what you will,” he mumbles raggedly.

"I don't want to do anything with it as it is," Elias answers curtly. "You're better than this. But seriously, after an entire semester putting effort into it you're just going to settle for subpar when both your academic performance and the topic deserve more?"

Elias leans back in his chair, the paper resting on the desk between them, folded over to the last page. He crosses his arms, waiting for a reaction from Garrett, and suddenly wonders who is behind the words that have just been spoken: the professor and the man share terribly exacting standards, but for different reasons.

Yet the professor’s frigid temperament only incenses Garrett, flaring inside of him as he sighs deeply and pulls his head up to skewer Elias with a deadened glower.

“I _am_ going to settle for subpar. Now are we done here?” he issues in a low tone.

The corner of Elias's mouth twitches, but he remains without expression as he returns Garrett's resolute stare. He does not allow the disappointment, that of the professor or the man, to paint his features.

"Yes, Mr. Hawke. We can be done."

Garrett peers at him with enervation openly painting his features. Though he steels his resolve and tightens his jaw, for his own stubborn nature does not allow his regret to bleed through. He vibrates internally, wishing only to crawl into Elias’ lap - to curl up there and pepper delicate, half-conscious kisses along his jawline - yet he stands from his seat and issues a single nod.

“Thank you for the semester, Professor Anders,” he drones out.

Elias merely nods, biting the inside of his cheek against any number of things he might have said. Too many of them were personal. Then he is watching Garrett slouch out of his office, perhaps for good. When he is out of sight, Elias's shoulders slump, and he leans forward and settles his brow in his hands, fingers in his hair.

_What were you really expecting Elias? He's eighteen._

He sits for a long moment, eyes closed, then he straightens, taking Garrett's paper from beneath his elbow and folding it neatly before shoving it to the bottom of the stack that he must finish grading by the end of the weekend. Then he picks up his fountain pen, and goes back to simply being a professor.

 

-ooo-

 

The following night, after a thirteen-hour period of blackout sleep, Garrett finds himself in his grimy kitchen with the sound of bass vibrating off the walls. The flat is in the throes of its end of term kegger, and he wrenches the freezer open to fish out the half-empty fifth of Jägermeister. Slamming it shut and rifling through their cabinets for any sort of clean glassware, he finally settles on a mug after sniffing it through. He unscrews the cap and sloppily attempts to measure out a shot, turning to glance over his shoulder at a familiar snort.

“Y’wanna do some bombs?” Rob quirks an eyebrow as he approaches from the doorframe.

“Yeah,” Garrett grins and observes as his friend extracts two beers from their fridge.

"Make that three, Broody," their friend Varric pipes up as he appears behind Rob, nudging him with an elbow.

Rob throws him a dark glance at the nickname, but he seems to be stuck with it, so he merely grimaces and dutifully extracts another beer.

Garrett had met Varric, who hailed from the cultured locale of San Francisco, in a creative writing class: a throwaway elective course he took primarily because he knew a certain professor appreciated quality prose.

"Hawke," Varric greets him, as for some reason he alone of their circle of friends has escaped being branded with a thematic title.

"You look like someone stepped on your grave, brother," he comments as he accepts his jagerbomb from Rob. "Thought you were in line for all A's this semester."

“Nah,” Garrett issues in half an accent, his inebriation compounding fully upon his poor habits as of late. “No idea what I’m getting in that social justice class,” he shrugs, though immediately glances down into his murky drink.

"Ohh, Blondie's class? I heard he's a hardass,” Varric responds as he swirls his own drink, staring at Hawke with intuitive eyes. “Don’t let a professor get to you. They’re hazardous to your health.”

“You have no idea,” Garrett sighs and lifts his head to peer at him. He is viscerally exasperated, bright eyes now glossed with some unnamed emotion, and his comportment ultimately conveys that this is more than a student generically complaining about a difficult course.

Rob finishes downing the entirety of his drink, then wipes his lips before issuing a statement in an annoyed bark:

"I don't get what your deal with that guy is, Hawke. He's an asshole. All that shit he goes on about is a waste of time."

Rob had taken an introductory course from Professor Anders at Garrett's suggestion, and had complained about it the entire time.

Varric has likewise drained his drink, though his eyes have remained on Hawke the entire time. He sets the glass on the counter, leans against it, and folds his arms.

"You should read more, Broody. Maybe some of the classic romantic poets, for starters."

“It’s… not a waste of time,” Garrett mutters inaudibly under his breath and presses the mug to his lips. He tilts it back, opening his throat to guzzle the jagerbomb in one effortless motion. Swallowing without a flinch, he glances at them both before his shoulders heave in a sigh.

“Though agreed. I’d like to see your nose pressed into some Keats, baby boy,” he smirks at Rob in an attempt at deflection.

Something like a flash of color brushes Rob's cheeks, but he is well into his drink by this time, so it blends easily into his complexion.

"Fuck you, Hawke," he says, but with a fond smirk.

Varric, in the process of glancing between the two during this exchange, opens his mouth to say something but snaps it shut, rubbing his face with his hands while his shoulders quiver with laughter.

"You two need to get laid," he announces, and wedges himself between them in the smallish kitchen to rifle through the fridge for another beer.

Garrett gnaws at his lip and glances away, unaware that Rob continues to gaze furtively at him.

“I gotta go do something,” Garrett suddenly announces and carelessly sets the mug onto the counter. He flashes them both a slapdash smile before they can react and slips out of the kitchen. Not even three minutes later he’s barred up in his room at his laptop, drilling his password into the screen and double clicking the blue and green icon for MSN chat.

The application sluggishly opens, setting his status from Away to Online, and he glances at the single unread message awaiting him.

_[Isabela says]: hey remember that falafel place you like near fenway? what stop is it on the T again? I’m going home this weekend_

He peers at it for a fraction of a moment, blinking hard as a pang of self-reproach jolts through him, though he closes out of the chat and instead rakes through his contact list.

_Elias Anders, Online. Mood: Irked_

Biting the inside of his cheek, he double clicks his name regardless and a chat window blooms upon his screen. While the long two months separating that illicit kiss against the door of Elias’s office have been physically barren - not even a touch, however longed for - they have often kept one another up at night this way, and rarely about topics involving academia.

_[Garrett says]: hi. how are you?_

There is a long, disconcerting pause, and then:

_[Elias says]: I’m moving back to India. How are you?_

_[Garrett says]: are you really?_

_[Elias says]: No. But this term makes me wish I could. Not a single A this semester. I must be a shite instructor._

Garrett pauses and stares at the screen for nearly a minute before gluing his fingers to the keys.

_[Garrett says]: that’s my fault. I’m a shit student_

_[Elias says]: You’re a brilliant student, Garrett._

_[Garrett says]: Elias…_

There is a heavy, fifteen second pause.

_[Garrett says]: I’m so sorry for how I behaved earlier. it’s not fair, considering how much faith you placed in me. you have no idea how much I hate that I’ve disappointed you_

There is another hefty pause, the cursor blinking at intervals until Garrett finds himself counting the flashes.

_[Elias says]: I’m too hard on people. Maybe I was too hard on you. Maybe that’s why there are no A’s. But it’s just one paper, Garrett. Not the end._

_[Garrett says]: you weren’t. I deserved that. is there any way you would let me edit it? please. I can do so much better. I want to prove that to you_

_[Elias says]: How do you make one of those… oh, here:  :) I hate this program. I’m too old for technology. I can give you until Sunday night. I have to turn in my report on Monday morning._

_[Garrett says]: really? thank you sooo much Elias_

_[Elias says]: I’m glad you came to your senses. :)_

_[Elias says]: You going to email it to me, or bring it to me?_

_[Garrett says]: I can bring it to you, if that’s alright_

_[Elias says]: 14 Mooring St. East from the intersection at Ward Ave. There’s a big oak in the front yard. Stained glass in the front door._

Garrett stares at the screen, and the bizarre concoction of words that he slowly begins to realize spell out an address that is neither on the Oxford campus, nor a coffee shop. He is too stunned to respond for a long moment, adrenaline flooding through his tired system, until he realizes he must say something in response.

_[Garrett says]: Your house?_

_[Elias says]: My house._

 

 


	10. Chapter 10

The record player occupying one corner shelf of his den has been whirring with the soft _hisssss – chink_ of an album that had ended somewhere in the laden last hour. It is only since putting the phone down from responding to Garrett's simply “ _omw_ ” text (which he'd had to puzzle out with his growing understanding of the modern devolution of the English language), that he had noticed the sound. Now, it is like a clock ticking. A rhythmic reminder of passing seconds. Seconds that had once been a year, a term, two months, and then a mere weekend.

A part of his mind reacts to the sound with repulsion and compels him to get up and change the record, or shut it off, but he remains fixed to the leather recliner, foot tucked under him, being held in place by eight pounds of a warmly rumbling feline. Lincoln is affixed to his chest, face tucked beneath his human's chin. Elias absently combs careful nails through silken black fur, earning an undulation of the cat's tail with every appreciated stroke.

Elias' eyes scan the room, searching for anything out of place. He realizes belatedly that he has neglected to turn on anything but the patterned glass lamp beside his chair. The entire space to the left of the dim staircase is dripping with shadows, his piano dappled only with the distant illumination of a streetlight beyond the front window. White keys stand out, as does open sheet music.

The coffee table, resting as did most furniture in the den upon an encompassing oriental rug, is strewn with its usual assortment of paraphernalia. Closest to him, recently used, is his silver tea service, brought from his family home in Copenhagen. His mother had been British, and tea was as much his ritual as it had once, in dim memory, been hers. There is a tile tray upon which several fat, squat candles rest, nearly burned away, for a glass of whiskey accompanied by candlelight and jazz was often the way he coaxed himself out of fits of anxiety. There are books. Books everywhere. On the coffee table, lining the two huge shelves that framed his fireplace, punctuated and accented by various effects he's assembled over the years. Glass bottles that held water from places he'd visited. Carved figurines crafted by a friend in India. Maori crafts from Sigrun’s native New Zealand. Framed photographs of countrysides, cities, and, here and there, his few friends.

Elias sighs and begins to stir in place, prompting a low mewl of protest from Lincoln.

“It’ll only take a moment,” he murmurs and caresses the underside of the cat’s chin. Met with a series of permissive purrs, he smiles and gently shifts the needy creature off his chest.

Now striding toward the record player, he lifts the turntable needle and offers the room a reprieve of silence. He beings to extract David Bowie’s _Ziggy Stardust_ and idly fits the record into its faded album sleeve, suddenly pausing with another deep sigh. He glances around at the room, considering that the ensuing hush adopts a tenor of loneliness, and thus his anxious gaze lingers upon a lined array of framed photographs along the adjacent shelf. The narrative of David Bowie and his bisexual rockstar alter ego slips from Elias’ fingers as they now reach for the keepsakes that chronicle his own rise and fall.

His lips unfurl with a smile when he picks up the first photograph and lovingly thumbs the frame. It depicts six boisterous faces, a manic grin plastered across each, with eyes clouded and glazed over. Limbs are splayed sloppily, mainly flung around each person’s shoulders for support, and Elias sits in this very position between Nathaniel and Elissa. They form the first half of a human chain curled around a table, Nathaniel in the middle with his new bride Velanna, followed by Sigrun and Oghren to the blonde’s right. Dog ( _yes_ , Dog), Elissa’s two-hundred pound English Mastiff and the group’s tacitly agreed upon mascot, lolls merrily at Sigrun’s feet. Too sharp for his own good, Elias had always tutted, for Dog indeed peers keenly at the camera in mimicking what humans are _meant_ to do before such a device, unlike the raucous string of swaying creatures above him.

“Okay, keep it together,” Elissa had hiccupped, raising the fifth refill of her champagne flute. “It’s nothing the Grey Gryphon hasn’t seen.”

Indeed, it had not been. The Grey Gryphon, a grimy pub situated back at Cambridge, bore witness to their ragtag shenanigans. So much so that the wooden plaque hanging above the front entrance - _In War, Victory. In Peace, Vigilance. In Death, Sacrifice._ – was victim to theft on a biannual basis. Not that the cryptic motto meant much to any of them (how could it have?), but each time it was stolen, every member of the gang chipped in some coin so that Oghren could have it replaced.  

Even if it was a laughably grim set of declarations, it was the bedrock upon which these bizarre friendships were forged; encompassed in a splintered plaque that stood watch over each one of them as they swayed in and out of a shitty little dive they jokingly referred to as home.

Set in a time where fingers didn’t bear rings and a hangover could be cured with a good, hearty breakfast, Elias grins to himself and shakes his head. There’s Nate, a broad-shouldered grump with a partiality toward compassion. As a family friend of the Couslands, Elissa has and will tell anyone to ask Nate about his stint in the Olympics for archery (and no, they don’t give a medal for fourth). Now married to Velanna, the spitfire Irishwoman who had excelled in history at Cambridge, Nate falls second to Elissa within Elias’ inner circle of friends. Closely followed by Sigrun, a Māori woman with enough enthusiasm to energize (documented in joules, of course) even the most deeply comatose of her Oxford lab students. Finally rounded out by Oghren, an unruly Scotsman and owner of the Grey Gryphon, whose age over the rest of the runts has lent him little wisdom and merely decreed that his most frequent patrons ended up becoming his litter of pseudo-adoptees.

With a nostalgic sigh, Elias sinks back into his chair to wait, and no sooner has he done so than Lincoln springs from the floor and resumes his rumbling position.

Everything has been cleaned twice over the course of the weekend, worried at with precision during the hours he could not sleep after his half-mad decision to give Garrett Hawke his home address.

_What was he thinking?_

Elias realizes belatedly that he has spoken these words aloud, for Lincoln's tail makes a wide stroke of acknowledgment across his lap and the cat lifts his head. Suddenly they are face to face, the cat's countenance curious, with pert ears that face toward him, and wide round eyes as green as a tropical sea.   

“Yes, I am now talking to myself,” Elias admits. “What am I doing Lincoln? I’m too old to be making foolish decisions.”

The cat stares at him for a moment, then merely blinks slowly, twice. One corner of Elias’s lips turns up and he returns the expression. Satisfied that his human is in order, Lincoln returns his head to Elias’s chest. He heaves a sigh, holding the cat to him as he shifts in the chair, and stares at the door.

It was late the night he’d talked to Garrett on MSN, and he had been driven by impulse and a glass of wine to bind himself to the words he’d spoken in his office months before. That the illicit act of lips touching, of possessing one another, would happen in due time. When Garrett was no longer his student. He could finalize his report for the term and submit it tonight, online, and he would be free of that moral restriction, but he understood the risks.

The substantial, overwhelming risk.

Elias had thought about changing his mind. Telling Garrett it was a mistake, that he could not pursue anything with him, and told himself that the boy was eighteen and would recover quickly from a crush never fully realized. But in the acts of changing the sheets on his bed and perusing what lay in his bedside table drawer, he knew his decision was cemented. To hurtle dangerously into the unpredictability of dabbling in the domain of feelings with someone so much younger, and the precarious prospects that would overshadow his career.

He snatches his cell phone off the table, flips it open, finds Garrett’s name, and thinks for one precarious moment of pushing the button, calling him and letting him know that something has come up, but at that very instant, like Fate intervening with a firm hand, the chime of his doorbell resonates through the house. Lincoln startles violently and leaps from his chest, digging claws into his belly, making Elias wince.

With a sigh, he replaces the cell phone and stands, shuffling like a man in a hazy dream to the foyer door. Opening it, he sees the familiarly shaped shadow, distorted beyond the stained glass of the main entrance. Elias takes several steps toward it, stretches out a hand, and then happens to glance down. He is wearing a pair of a fuzzy slippers with cat ears and whiskers: a gift from Elissa for Christmas a few years before. With a curse, he kicks them off under the wooden shoe rack, and then turns the doorknob with trembling fingers.

Garrett suckles in a harsh breath while the door opens, rooted to the spot as his liquid courage wilts into a flurry of panic. It pulses inside his throat and forms like ice between his ribs, though he cracks a wide smile, eyes alight. He beholds Elias with squared shoulders, bearing the illusion of superiority in height, though his face is far too smooth as he scratches at the plastic ridges on his phone.

The professor of social justice is clad in dark slacks and a pale blue button-up, sleeves rolled to his elbows that reveal forearms dusted in freckles. Garrett swallows down the impulse to mouth the inside of his wrist and lap kitten-delicate up to the crook of his elbow, nosing soft blond hair and peering up at him with lidded, reverent eyes. He aches to map each freckle, to chase the patterns that lay beneath the surface, as he drinks in an amber stare that burns a hole through his stomach faster than the whiskey ever could.

“Hi,” he manages.

His tongue feels fat, too wet and heavy inside his mouth.

Elias' burgeoning resolve flags at the sight of his not quite erstwhile student perched on his doorstep, blue eyes plainly creased with nerves even though a smile blooms on that perfect mouth. That wild, thick black hair is curling in the summer humidity, begging to be combed with delicate fingers.

Elias notes the backpack clinging to his shoulders, and swallows, wondering what items might accompany Garrett's term paper. What had he left home with tonight he thinks he might need? A change of clothes? A toothbrush? Condoms?

The professor feels his own pale cheeks begin to flush, and he clears his throat and rubs the back of his hand over his lips, which feel wet. He realizes Garrett has spoken, and is now looking up at him. Looking at Elias's mouth, actually.

"Hello," he manages to respond, and resists to urge to tug the boy inside by the t-shirt and claim his lips.

Garrett's eyes dart back to the professor's, arrested in some thought perhaps not dissimilar to Elias's.

Stepping back, Elias holds the door open with a shoulder, and gestures.

"Come in." His voice sounds hoarse.

Garrett obeys and brushes past Elias, nearly reeling back from the warmth emanating from the man. He suddenly feels flushed, too aflame, too overwhelmed with their proximity that he sways toward the frozen professor, desperate for his heat.

As Garrett steps up over the threshold, claiming his three inches of height on Elias, the professor finds himself gazing up at him, and suddenly the younger man is so near. So dangerously near. Elias puts out a cautioning hand, meaning to maintain what small space they have between them for what small amount of time remains for Elias to make claim to being an ethical man. However, when his palm grazes Garrett's side, fingers curl in the fabric of the t-shirt, and he is pulling him nearer, needing to feel that lithe figure molded against his once more.

Garrett whimpers in gratitude and fits his thumbs under Elias’s jaw, walking him backward until the professor is pinned against the wall. He presses lips to his pulse and tests a small lick, eyes screwing shut when he exhales in choppy breaths against Elias’ burning skin.

Elias makes a small noise that is both protest and relief from a tension so thick in his soul it adds weight to his steps. He tilts his chin up into Garrett's insistent touch, opening his neck for his lips. His fingers wedge themselves between their bodies, the smallest effort he can manage, but instead of unlocking their embrace, his hands travel up. They rove over the taut belly, musculature easily defined beneath the cloth, over the broad chest, to the neck, and then curl desperately into the dark hair at his nape.

Garrett gasps and carves a path up his throat with a warm tongue that sends twin throbs of heat down Elias’ spine. His own toes curl and he fits a knee between the professor’s thighs, pinning him more firmly to the wall as he kisses the corner of Elias’ mouth. Fingertips begin to wander, and he slowly slinks an arm around the slackening man, fitting him against his chest as they both succumb to the ache that has consumed them for half a year.

Elias gasps softly at the knee that Garrett presses between his thighs, trying to resist the urge to grind against it, for that will only send him plummeting over the edge of this precipice. _You've made it this long, Elias_ , he tells himself, biting his lip as Garrett's kisses wander along his throat to his chin. With every shred of willpower, the professor brings his hands around to cup Garrett's face, to hold him back so that their eyes meet.

"We... Garrett, I have to... grade your paper. And… the door is open. We can't..."

Garrett whines at the loss and draws his brows, inching forward to leech more of his warmth. They remain glued, heartbeats threading together in an unsynchronized tune of yearning. “Elias, please,” he croaks, spilling warm breath against his mouth.

Elias laughs shakily, a puff of air on Garrett's lips. "You are a persistent thing, aren't you?" he says, swaying closer to him as he uses a toe to nudge the front door closes, so they are not on display for his entire neighborhood.

"Go sit on the couch," he commands gently, though he seals the words with a short, soft kiss to the smooth skin of Garrett's chin.

He shivers and obeys with a nod, stumbling toward Elias’ couch in a shroud of disbelief. His cheeks are a mild pink and he blinks dreamily, intoxicated with lingering headiness that clouds his vision and anchors his limbs.

Elias allows himself a moment to watch him as he walks away, biting his lip. The nagging sensation that he is wrong to allow this thing returns, tugging and tearing at his conscience. There is something other than simply the fact that Garrett is his student: a thorn wedged within his subconscious mind, endeavoring to work its way into the light.

Sighing, the professor follows Garrett into the living room, where the younger man is settling onto the couch as instructed. Elias avoids his eyes, and sinks down onto the cushion next to him when he should have ensconced himself in his recliner, out of reach of this boy. The ghost of his lips burns on his neck, his skin prickling with the nearness of him.

Throwing a glance at the backpack, Elias gestures with one hand.

"Paper?"

Garrett shrugs his backpack off and extracts his term paper, now mildly crinkled at the edges. He gazes at Elias and bites his lip, offering the last bulwark of hindrance standing between them. _Eviscerate it, tear it to shreds, tear_ me _to shreds_ , Garrett fidgets, aching to crawl inside his shirt and mark every inch of him.

Elias takes the paper, feeling the burning gaze upon him, aching to be done with this, to be unfettered by societal boundaries. Tucking a foot beneath him, he settles in to read the nearly twenty page document, and soon is lost in the eloquent phrasing, the engaging arguments, and finds himself delighted anew by the nimble mind behind them. It is true that Garrett's first effort was in fact good, but Elias wants excellence from him the way he wants all things from his student: fully and entirely.  

Somewhere in the midst of reading, Lincoln pounces from the floor to land in Garrett's lap, and Elias glances up long enough to notice that Marx is still upon the coffee table, and is now glaring at Garrett with flattened ears.

"This is... wonderful, Garrett," Elias says softly, flipping one of the last pages. "I appreciate that you finally included all the sources I suggested. Your conclusion is... much more well-rounded."

Garrett startles from stroking Lincoln, who has dissolved into a puddle of mewls in his lap. His eyes grow wide and a blush creeps down his neck, mouth falling open by centimeters.

“So is this… This is it?” he mumbles, chewing the inside of his cheek.

He has scarcely registered a word Elias has uttered, other than the fact that he has spent the last fifteen minutes squirming beneath this warm, purring creature, wishing it were his professor instead.

Elias' eyes snap to him, and he almost laughs. Garrett's cheeks are flushed with what Elias realizes is hardly bashfulness at the praise Elias had offered, but hot-blooded anticipation. The professor's hands quiver, belly clenching, and he flips the paper closed over the list of citations he has no need to peruse.

"Good work, Garrett," he says, attempting not to acknowledge that hungry stare.

Garrett swallows thickly and offers a sheepish smile, suddenly flooded with relief that he is _free_. Unshackled by the burdens of academia that have ripped away sleep and bolstered terrible habits, now able to traverse an ocean and return home - though a sofa will suffice in the meantime - and he reaches a hand out to close the space between them.

“Thank you, Eli – Professor,” he breathes, suddenly lighter, yet somehow older.

Garrett's hand grazing him sets his skin on fire. It is unsettling, the power this boy holds, as though over the two terms Garrett was Elias' student, he had been systematically sifting through the professor's soul and stoking flames long untended, settling to ash and embers. It is like coming to life again, and upon the back of that near overwhelming feeling comes something else: fear. That is the thorn which has been struggling to pierce his recognition this whole weekend. Not fear of being caught, or of violating policies and ethics, but fear of being hurt, of being crushed beneath the weight of this want.

"It's just... Elias now," he murmurs, setting the paper aside on the couch. He tries to smile, but his skin feels tight, and it is only a twitch of his mouth. "Finally."

Garrett’s eyes flick down to that mouth and he inhales, nodding once, twice, twitching beneath Lincoln as he awaits Elias’ permission to swallow him up. He realizes that he is trembling, overcome with dual pillars of uncertainty and need that settle in his belly like a rock.

“Elias,” Garrett says softly, caressing that name inside his mouth and along his collarbone with a thumb.

Elias lifts his right hand, tracing the backs of his fingers down Garrett's arm where it connects with his collarbone, shivering at being touched where skin is usually shrouded by clothing, forbidden. Reaching Garrett's shoulder, he stretches his hand out for that perfect face, just out of reach from their positions.

Garrett leans forward and fits his cheek against Elias’ palm, eyes slipping shut with a sigh. He nuzzles against those fingers and a smile touches upon his lips, unaware of just how young thick black lashes and the betrayal of a blush make him look.

This vision melts the last of Elias' willpower, and he shifts his hand to hook fingers around the back of Garrett's neck. Nudging gently, he whispers: "Come here."

A small noise breaks at the back of Garrett’s throat and he submits, squirming toward Elias until Lincoln bounds off his lap. He gently threads both hands through the professor’s hair, gazing at him with eyes that are far too blue.

Elias keeps one hand on the back of Garrett's neck, and lifts the other one to trace the strong features of his face: across the smooth forehead, the broad cheekbones, the cheeks still baby-soft and round with youth. He finally thumbs those plush lips, which part for him, a tongue darting out to moisten them, eyes already dark with want.

Garrett takes the thumb between his teeth, tracing the pad with soft whorls of his plump little tongue. He peers up at Elias through full lashes, suddenly shedding any tatter of diffidence when he begins to trail fingertips feather-light down the professor’s throat.

Elias draws a shuddering breath, chest rising, heartbeat climbing, pulsing hard beneath Garrett's fingers. Surely he can feel it. The caress of tongue against fingertip begs to be more, and Elias finally purrs huskily:

"Kiss me."

Garrett releases and envelops him with a small groan, raising a thumb to caress Elias’ temple. He closes the inch between them with a trembling exhale of relief, and the weight of Elias’ mouth against his own whips the breath from his lungs. Garrett shudders and cups his jawline, pulling him closer for a rougher kiss, aching to swallow him whole and map every inch of his being with sloppy, desperate licks.

Elias' eyes flutter shut, and he inhales sharply through his nose at the flood of relief, as though this kiss is the first breath of a drowning man. Garrett tastes of sweet scotch, his mouth as soft and needy as Elias remembers it from that last distant day in his office.

He finds his hands wandering: one shifting up from Garrett's neck to card through those tousled locks, the other trailing from his face down his chest, the t-shirt soft. He finds Garrett's hip, tucks fingers beneath the hem of a pocket, and tugs suggestively, wanting him closer.

Garrett spills into his lap readily, fitting both knees on either side of those narrow hips. He deepens the kiss and presses their chests together; suddenly flushing down to his thighs when he realizes his cock is straining through his trousers, hot and thick against Elias’ belly.

Elias' sighs into Garrett's mouth, arms linking around his torso and pulling him closer still, straining off the back of the couch as well in order to feel the shape of him, the girth against his belly. So many nights had he imagined this, wanting to touch, to taste, to feel it inside him. He feels his cheeks aflame, knowing the flush spreads to his chest, along his arms, and feeling his own cock harden so fully and so quickly he is startled by the magnitude of Garrett's effect upon his body.

“Oh,” Garrett gasps between wet kisses, feeling Elias throbbing and stiff between his parted thighs. He carefully fists a hand in silken blond locks, licking Elias’ mouth open in small whimpers, and he loses himself in that pliant heat. Their teeth clack together roughly and Garrett remembers to reign in his hunger, slowing if only to sigh around a moan he earns from his professor.

It seems ages since Elias had felt this way; it is as though dormant nerves are flickering to life once more. There had been others in his life in years past, but none that had made his blood sing in his veins this way since...

He pulls sharply back from the kiss, and suddenly the heat coiling in his belly is hardening to stone, and while Garrett's insistent lips still find his, Elias returns his kisses only mechanically now, his mind ripped back through the years to the summer he had met Karl.

That had been an impassioned whirlwind, a mimicry of this thing that begged to be brought to fruition here. Karl, a beautiful, smart teaching assistant, and Elias, a reckless eighteen year old drunk on freedom and hormones. It was an ill match, made between two people wrong for each other but who clung to love and lust to claw out four years of heartache before the end.

With a harsh whine, Elias turns his face away from Garrett, puts a hand on his chest, feeling that thudding heart.

"Garrett. Oh god I'm... so sorry. I... can't." Elias squeezes his eyes shut, not wanting to see the expression on Garrett's face, nor see the memories in his mind's eye.

Garrett’s heart plummets into his stomach and his lungs seize with a chill. His mouth lands on Elias’ chin pathetically and he blinks, eyes pricking as a swath of ice-cold dread trickles down his spine. “W-what’s wrong?” he whimpers, reeling through any and all the ways he’d shattered Elias’ trust. Garrett doesn’t let go of him, can’t, not yet anyway, and he sinks into him with a silent plea.

Elias' hand fists in Garrett's t-shirt, and he turns his face back while keeping his eyes closed. He buries his face in Garrett's neck, breathing in the clean scent of him, the coffee and cologne. Idly, he presses lips to skin, one arm still linked about Garrett's waist.

"It's not you," Elias mutters, hearing the way his voice sounds like stones breaking. "I know it sounds... stupid. But this is... too fast." _Too easy to be hurt. Heart ripped out like that day in Karl's kitchen. Pain he never got over. Buried and rising to the surface. Fear._

Garrett trembles and nods, nosing his way into Elias’ hair. “I-I’m sorry. We can – we should… I’m sorry. I’m an idiot. I fly out tomorrow, and I don’t know what – why… fuck. I want to know you, I do. A movie maybe, or let me hold you, even if just tonight, I don’t know – fuck, I’m _sorry_ ,” he babbles, growing pink with shame, suddenly feeling far too raw.

Elias lifts his head, meeting Garrett's eyes, and captures his chin in his long fingers. He kisses swollen lips, tongue darting out to taste them.

"Stop," he whispers. "There's nothing to apologize for. In case you could not tell, I do want you. Very much, in fact."

Garrett wilts in his hold and nods, believing him. He’d believe anything Elias said, in fact, having consigned himself to such a conviction after spending countless hours listening to this man proselytize and edify in a voice that coaxes him to sleep at night.

As Garrett nods, Elias releases his chin and runs his hand through his hair.

"I don't want you to go. Not tonight, not tomorrow. Not ever." His eyelids feel heavy with sadness and longing both.

“Keep me,” Garrett’s bottom lip quivers.

Elias' brows draw down in hurt at Garrett's discomfiture. It had not been his intention to hurt him, or engender a feeling of rejection. It was far different: he wants something solid, something real, a thing he is not afraid of.

"I do want to keep you," he finds himself saying.

Garrett tucks his head beneath Elias’ chin and sighs, considering his flight out of Heathrow at ten the next morning. It will draw him away from this drab island, away from Elias, providing the legitimate space he seems to be requesting. Within a handful of hours, a barrier of ocean and three months shall steel forth as the new bulwark between them in the wake of Garrett’s recent victory. Yet the term paper seems to shrivel beneath the shroud of burgeoning defeat that hangs over the man in his professor’s lap, and he presses his cheek against his throat, seeking warmth.

“I’m sorry,” he says again.

"What are you apologizing for, Garrett?" Elias mumbles, stroking his broad back. "For me having ghosts you could not possibly know of? Stay with me tonight. Sit up and talk. Fall asleep on the couch with me. Just... wait, for the rest. Be serious, when you ask for it."

Part of Elias feels stupid, saying this to an eighteen year old, but it is almost like speaking to the boy that Elias once was: the carefree youth whose own desires he put above all else, only realizing too late what really mattered. He is offering Garrett something of substance, not quick satisfaction, but he knows it is a lofty hope.

Garrett lifts his gaze to Elias’ and finds he cannot speak, for his tongue has been knotted and stuffed back down his throat. He feels utterly foolish, far too young, too brash, and he leans forward with tentative measure to take Elias in a shy kiss. Their lips scarcely brush and his eyes remain open, half-lidded as he aches to drink in each freckle, line, and everything in between.

Elias smiles as Garrett's lips brush his, a small thrill trilling in his heart that Garrett agreed, wondering if perhaps there is something more here than the obvious, intense physical attraction. Is there a future? He kisses him back, keeping his eyes open as well, staring as intensely back at Garrett, and searching that deep blue for his answer. Perhaps Elias is a fool, and the feeling he sees in those eyes is the lust of an eighteen year old boy, but perhaps it is more.

Only time will tell.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HOLY FUCK WE UPDATED! Hi! If you still read this story, thank you for sticking along with it, we love you all <3
> 
> If you want to hang on tumblr, [ilyahna](http://www.kyluxtrashcompactor.tumblr.com) writes as Elias and [winey](http://www.winebearcat.tumblr.com) as Garrett.
> 
> [Chapter art](http://winebearcat.tumblr.com/post/144117998145/becauseanders-so-the-amazing-a-hundred-years) by becauseanders.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! There are chapter tags that apply here, so _please_ proceed with caution:
> 
>  
> 
> **Drug abuse mention, STD mention, infidelity, mental illness**
> 
>  
> 
> Much of the darkness within this chapter is written from experience, and has been done so in a manner of coping. This is in no way an attempt to dramatize or make the story “edgier,” as these are issues that both of the authors have dealt with in-depth.

 

_Cambridge University, Summer 1996._

His head feels as though it's been stuffed with cotton, soaked in chloroform, making messages between neurons lazy and defective, thoughts disjointed and fuzzy at the edges. The backs of his eyes feel like they are pushing up against ground glass, and it hurts to blink. It takes three tries to get the key in the door, and he almost leans over the railing and vomits before he can turn it. The air inside is blessedly cool as he stumbles in from the Cambridge summer afternoon, having just woken up... somewhere... a few hours before. Bleary, half-drugged confusion had caused him to take the wrong train to Karl's flat the first time.

He drops his keys in the bowl by the door. No. He drops his keys on the floor. Dammit. It's too far down there to pick them up, so he leaves them. Shuffling through the living room, he heads to the kitchen to raid Karl's refrigerator for a bottle of water. Passing beneath the arched awning, he hears a sound on the edge of his consciousness. A sniffling, wet sound, and he turns, stops, surprised to see Karl, who was usually in class at this hour, where Elias himself should be, if he bothered most days.

Karl stifles a whine when he sees Elias stumble into view, wild blonde hair tangled into a nest of chaos. His eyes are blown wide, splotched red with fatigue and whichever comedown he is roiling through now. Karl suddenly can’t stand to look at him, and he buries his face between soaked fingers, shuddering out another hitched sob. He can scarcely see, eyes too puffed from an hour of anguish in this very spot, choking on spit and tears as he begins to fall apart at the kitchen table.

Seeing Karl hunched at the table in obvious pain is enough to pierce through Elias' veil of self-inflicted haze, and he arrests his journey to the refrigerator to instead go to Karl. Stretching out a hand, nicotine stains on two fingers, he cards through that tousled dark hair.

"What's wrong, baby?" he coos, though his voice comes out cracked, not comforting.

Karl flinches and splinters with another tormented sound, tucking his face into the crook of his elbow. He hiccups, too pathetic to paw Elias’ hand away, because that’s simply all he has ever been: weak.

Elias' brow beetles, and concern wells in his belly. He's seen Karl cry several times, and every one of those instances had something to do with either sappy old movies, or Elias himself. Gingerly keeping his hand on his back, Elias scrapes out a chair and settles into it.

"Tell me," he begs softly, though isn't sure he wants the answer.

“Don’t touch me,” Karl muffles into his damp sleeve. “Just -- don’t.”

Elias slowly pulls his hand away, curling it into a ball in his lap.

"What did I do this time?" he asks, though he can think of a number of things. Being gone for three days, crash-landed and out of commission on someone's couch in London for one. If Karl had found out about that one drunken night with... what was his name? Elias did not remember. Most things were a blur these days.

Karl sobs harder and folds into himself, covering his eyes with trembling fingers. “G-get out of m-my flat, Elias,” he hics softly, unable to conjure spite or rage.

"Get out of your flat? I..."

He thinks about pretending that he'd mentioned to Karl he'd be in London this weekend, but then if occurs to him that he's used that lie before, and Karl's memory is far better than his these days. Memory. Fuck. He was supposed to go to Karl's sister's wedding this weekend.

"Fuck, babe, I'm... I'm sorry I completely forgot about the thing with Olivia. I'll make it up to you, I promise."

Despite Karl's earlier words, Elias moves a hand to his lover's knee, squeezing gently.

“S-stop,” Karl jerks away from him, but it’s more a plea than a demand. “Go, Elias. Please.”

The edges of panic begin to flutter in Elias' belly. Karl has cried, they've yelled at one another, argued, but never in the past four years had Karl ever demanded he leave. This has to be some misunderstanding, some silly storm that will blow over if Elias just says or does the right thing. Usually that means physical affection, which Karl never fails to respond to.

Elias keeps the hand on his leg, but shifts it to his inner thigh, touch gentle, and leans his chin on Karl's bowed shoulder.

"Please talk to me, baby. I love you."

Karl wails pitifully, snapped in half by Elias’ hushed voice. “G-go. If you love m-me. Leave,” he sobs harder.

Elias frowns, not understanding that concept. He kisses the shell of Karl's ear, strokes his hand up his back to comb his hair back.

"I do love you," he whispers. "You know I do. Why do you want me to go?"

“I-I-I,” Karl heaves, choking on his breaths, “I f-feel so dirty.”

He unravels further, too feeble to resist Elias’ touch. His shoulders shudder in anguish, wringing each strangled noise from his chest. He feels pried apart, ribs wrested open and then fractured, crushing his lungs, his heart.

That takes Elias off guard, and the hand stroking his hair pauses a moment, searching for reasons that phrase should involve tears instead of the rather enjoyable permutations it has taken on in the bedroom.

Slowly, he resumes carding through his brown tresses.

"What are you talking about, Karl?"

He is becoming increasingly, sinkingly convinced that this must have to do with one of the few deviances Elias has had that he's not admitted in similar tears and choked sobbing.

Karl cannot lift his head and instead thumps his cheek onto the table, eyes screwing shut. “Who have you been fucking?” he sniffs, voice hollow.

"No one..." Elias lies automatically, because that is what he always does. "There's just you, Karl."

There is a slight tremble in his hand, however, a brief pause in the gently motion of stroking his lover's hair.

“D-don’t lie,” Karl whimpers, “if you love me, you won’t lie.”

His hand finally stills, coming to rest at the base of Karl's warm neck. He considers lying again, but Karl is smart; it was the second thing that had attracted Elias to him so, right after the tall, dark haired, blue-eyed beauty that he finds so irresistible. If Karl was accusing him of something, he most likely had a reason. Had ferreted out some clue Elias did not properly cover.

"There was... I think... maybe someone a few months ago. I was... really drunk. I'm not sure we..." He does not even have the decency to flush, though he should. In fact, he feels detached, as though his words are falling from some other pair of lips.

Karl wrenches up from the chair and out of Elias’ grip. He snivels in soft hitches and blindly attempts to bump around the table, patting the surface with his fingers.

“I don’t believe you,” he weeps, nearly tripping over himself and knocking a glass of water over in the process. It tips off the edge and explodes with a loud crack, and he suddenly sinks to his knees, choking on another sob as fingers scrabble for shards of glass.

“I don’t believe you, I don’t believe you,” he blubbers past globs of saliva, trying to collect the broken pieces between trembling fingers. A tiny fragment bites into his palm and draws blood. It wells quickly and leaks down his wrist, though he continues to paw for what has shattered. _Pathetic_ , attempting to thread together cumbersome chunks of something that once was; stripped of its utility and whittled down into a weapon.

The sound of shattering glass the a painful picture of Karl kneeling on the kitchen floors dripping red on the white tile drags Elias from his haze, and he is suddenly on his knees beside him, pulling the bleeding hand away from the minefield, gently prying the piece of glass away and dropping it again.

"Karl, stop," he begs, lank blond hair falling into his face, trailing to his shoulders.

He tucks Karl's palm into a fold of his shirt, smearing the red across his wrist, applying pressure with his fingers even though Karl weakly tries to pull away.  

“Why?” Karl’s voice fissures, “Elias, why?” he hangs his head pitifully and snivels, attempting to tug out of his grip.

Elias' lips fall open, and he wants to answer, but he has no words to fit. Karl's question is an existential enigma for the twenty-two year old boy that has barely scrabbled his way to his final term at Cambridge University. Why he commits any of the childish, callous acts is beyond him, a miasma of behaviors in which he is only the attentive, devoted person he should be a fraction of the time, wedged between dark needy depression and a heady feeling of irreproachable arrogance. The kind that drives him to think that he is so special, so essential to the man he loves and to the mechanics of society that no deed in which he engages can offer consequence. Until he crawls out of whatever hole he might be in and emerges into one.

"I'm..." he tries to think of a word. _Sorry. An asshole. A fool. Not good enough for you._

He has said all these things before, and the words sound like the scratching cacophony of a broken record even in his own ears. He tries to pull Karl to him, wants to put his arms around him, and hold the sobbing in.

“You don’t realize, do you? What you’ve done to me?” Karl hiccups, falling into him as he always has. And perhaps always will.

Elias fans his legs open, wedges his back against the chair, pulls Karl into him, wraps him in a tangled embrace, bleeding hand only half wrapped in the hem of Elias' shirt and smudging his belly, warm like the tear stained face on his shoulder. Elias does not care, merely holds onto Karl as though he may vanish if he lets go.

"I hurt you," he answers hollowly. That much he can admit.

Karl sinks into his chest and gurgles on a chewy glob of spit. He quivers, a wounded creature now inside the arms of the very man who has shorn him to the bone. And perhaps always will.

“You… I… The doctor called. After my physical exam. I --“ his voice breaks off again in a shamed wine, suddenly feeling as desolate and filthy as he had when he first received the phone call.

The trickle of blood that runs down Elias' stomach, over his hip bone, makes him shiver, but Karl's words distract him from winding the shirt further around it. He is looking down at the spreading stain on the pale green, and distractedly thinking this is color Karl likes him best in, while the words sink in.

"What are you talking about, Karl?" Panic again, heat skipping a beat, throat constricting. _Cancer?_

His fingers are like a vice around Karl's shoulder.

Karl flushes hard and attempts to squirm out of the embrace, suddenly flooded with chagrin. “E-Elias, just _go_. If you love me, go,” he rasps, eyes twisted in pain.

"No!"

Irritation born of fear and frustration and three nights high on smack bring a sharp bark to the surface. He wedges a foot between Karl's legs, wrapping an arm around his waist, holding him tight. His eyes light on the three woven bracelets on his left wrist that are shoved dangerously high from this desperate grip, revealing, if Karl were to look for it, the bruised flesh of collapsed veins, where the needles slip in. That, in hidden in other places Karl wouldn’t think to look. Perhaps Elias was lucky or Karl was willfully blind that he managed not to notice the few times Elias was home with pinprick pupils, and perhaps the only thing keeping him afloat in mired secrecy being the high marks he somehow still managed even as little more than the living dead.

"I'm not fucking going anywhere. What is wrong with you?" _How is it Elias asking this question of anyone else?_

“I’m _dirty_ . Violated,” Karl mumbles, defeated. “Don’t you know to use a condom when you fuck other people? W-when you, when you – do, go… While I’m _here_ and we’ve gone to Germany together and you’ve met my _father_ and my _family_ and I’ve done everything for you and tutored you and, and – here I am trying to hold you together but I… I c-can’t, anymore. My… they all know, Elias, they know, because I got the phone call at the w-wedding and… and… I need the antibiotics, and...”

He dissolves into increasingly hysterical tears and breaks off with another choked noise. His vision blurs, hot and viscous, and he slumps backward with a thud.

It hits him then, what Karl means, and his face burns with shame that is so multi-tiered and hits him so hard that his stomach clenches, and he wants to vomit, even though he's had nothing in his body for days except for what can be cooked in a spoon.

First, it’s the shame that jolts him in flickering memories of waking up in beds in dirty apartments hungover and limp and feeling used, and not remembering how he got that way, and the time he was so confused he didn't know who the man beside him was, or what they'd done, or if Elias had even wanted to. All he knows from that night is that he could not find his right shoe, and so he'd had to walk home barefoot on the hot concrete, and hid in the bathtub with the hot water running for so long Elissa had finally come in and pulled the curtain aside and coaxed him out. He made up some story about a club, and roofies, but the space in his mind where the truth was had been scrubbed clean.

Then, the feeling of shame evolves to hollowness, because there are times he _does_ remember, times he was complicit because he was so high and riding a blissful wave of days without sleep, he didn't think it _mattered_ because Karl would forgive him for anything because Elias was perfect and they were happy and in love and soulmates. Elias would forgive Karl. Of course he would. Or that is what he told himself when he violated the boundaries of their relationship on nothing more than a whim.

Lastly, and perhaps the most shameful, is the feeling of relief. Karl means, surely, that he has caught some contagion from those times when Elias thought he was safe because he was Elias, and things like condoms didn't matter. Now, however, he finds himself recalling the one time he didn't have his own gear, and his friend had said, " _of course I'm clean, dude,"_ and Elias had listened, because it was just that once.

How does he sit here in the floor, however, eyes brimming, and tell his boyfriend _thank god_ it's just chlamydia, or something frail and stupid, and not something worse?

 _Say something, Elias_ . _What words are left now?_

"I don't deserve your forgiveness," he whispers. Perhaps this is the only true thing he's ever said to Karl except _I love you._ And now it doesn't matter.

Karl stares at him, feeling as if he’s been flayed open by the slicing weight of this five-word confession. He gazes into haunted eyes rimmed mauve with shame, though perhaps something darker, and Karl dips from the well of compassion inside him and reaches out a hand. Crimson fingers cradle Elias’ stubbled jaw, mildly gaunt, and he brushes a high cheekbone with a trembling thumb. Tears leak down his face and his sniffles, leaning in to gently brush their lips. He recalls kissing this creature for the first time, four years ago, heart slamming in his throat beneath a streetlamp on a dewy autumn night. It had been utterly romantic, far too tender for Elias’ tastes, but Karl had sighed into his mouth and soaked every moment into his bones, giving up every piece of himself for the eighteen year old who had blazed into his life like a dying star. He’d gone home that night and bundled up before another Turner Classic Movies marathon with his cat, Emma, whispering to her about how this was it, how he’d found the one.

He seals four years of memories within a kiss, every _I love you_ whispered between sheets and shadows, every swell of reverence for this gorgeous, lost creature who has given him everything, and taken away just as much.

“I know,” he mumbles against his lips, clutching on him like a man on the edge. He feels every one of those nights slip away, every line from _Casablanca_ , every encouraging purr from Miss Emma, and he pulls away from Elias with a noise that rivals the shatter of his heart.

“You won’t hear from me again.”

***

_Oxford, Summer 2006._

And he didn't.

The chime on the grandfather clock strikes three am, and it jolts Elias out of his vivid reverie: that day, nearly ten years past, sitting on a cold tile floor with what amounted to a knife in his hand, blinded by tears and blood on his fingers.

He'd destroyed something beautiful, and while rarely a week went by when he did not think of the pain he'd caused, not a day went by when he did not also recall the abject loneliness that had followed at his heels when he'd walked away.

He had, in the end, walked away. Because that was the only thing he could do that made him an honest man. It was the only shred of himself, the man he was meant to be, that he'd held on to, and it was only because Karl had asked it of him.

_If you love me, go._

Elias sighs, and looks down at the boy in his lap, peacefully sleeping with a hand curled around Elias' knee. Though Garrett might not be Elias, might not be a ticking time bomb that didn't know he was bipolar until it was too late to pick of the pieces - and even that illness was not all to blame. His years in India spent with the Colonel as part of the Peace Corps had taught him that his flaws were intrinsic. They'd all called the man Justice, because he was a force to be reckoned with, and never overlooked blemishes of character.

 _Burn them out from the inside_ , he'd said. _Become your ideal._

At least Elias can say that he's tried. His twenty-two year old self was still clinging like a film to him in some ways, because he'd never loved again after Karl. He'd drowned himself in others' pain, other pursuits, and let go of that part of him. So in some ways, he was emotionally caged, afraid of getting it wrong, and also afraid that anyone attracted to him could only be a mirror of that trapped child.

He raises a hand and strokes Garrett's hair, and notices with misted eyes that he smiles in his sleep like Karl always did. Swallowing, he takes a long drink of his scotch. He'd heard that Karl was happy, that he was with an old Cambridge schoolmate - that raven haired, blue-eyed Amell boy.

Elias wishes him the best; he can't help but do otherwise.

Though does he dare to have hope for himself? Somewhere on his mantle he has a medal that Justice gave him when his two years in India were over, and he was heading back to Cambridge to write a dissertation instead of die in a smack house in London with no soul left. The medal was one of the Colonel's, the highest honor the man had ever earned from his service. He said it was to remind him that he was alive, and that he had found purpose, and he would change the future instead of condone the past.

Elias gazes at Garrett's face, and that perfect dimple that remains there as long as Elias' fingers card through his hair. Which is Garrett? The future? A reflection of the past?

Or both?

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to every one for reading. This story is on indefinite hiatus for personal reasons. If you'd like to know the headcanon for the end, you can talk with ilyahna1980 (@kyluxtrashcompactor on tumblr). Best wishes to you all, and thank you so much for your support. Take care.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[podfic] A Hundred Years From Now](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5450927) by [mevipodfic (mevima)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mevima/pseuds/mevipodfic)
  * [A Hundred Years From Now (Podfic)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7077394) by [therealmnemo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/therealmnemo/pseuds/therealmnemo)




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